


i stand there beside you (when the storm comes through)

by beatles_bum, ScottieIsImpatient



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Allergies, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28633332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatles_bum/pseuds/beatles_bum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScottieIsImpatient/pseuds/ScottieIsImpatient
Summary: A successful First Contact turns troublesome when the alien inhabitants become intrigued by Lieutenant Reed's allergies and, having no concept of human ethics, essentially kidnap him and another crewman to study the condition further.AKA we angst Malcolm's allergies.
Relationships: Malcolm Reed & Charles "Trip" Tucker III, Malcolm Reed/Charles "Trip" Tucker III
Comments: 51
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Title is paraphrased from a line in the Coldplay song "Army of One".)
> 
> As I'm writing this, the fic is far from completion. We decided to get the first chapter out there anyway. This has proved to be a fun project so far, and it wouldn't be possible without my fellow writer's help. Thanks Harls!
> 
> And now, onwards with the angst!

Lieutenant Reed stares incredulously into the drink he’s been handed, perfectly aware of the two and a half pairs of eyes trained on him. “Um…” he fumbles for something to say, something that at least _sounds_ diplomatic. No need to ruin a perfectly good first contact, after all. “I apologize, Your Lady Grace, but I don’t drink on duty.”

A moment of silence passes. Then another. Malcolm wonders if his translator broke down.

Finally, a single eye blinks in comprehension and the lopsided smile on the Lady’s pale face grows. “Oh, dear me, yes, of course!” A three-fingered hand shoots out and snatches the drink from Malcolm’s hand. “Of course, of course! Do forgive me, Lieutenant, it completely flew my mind that Warriors are forbidden to become intoxicated while standing guard. Ah, please! We have plenty of non-alcoholic drinks to choose from as well.”

A little bit taken back by the Lady’s “realization”, Malcolm smiles nervously. “Er, no thanks.”

“But you must!” exclaims one of the Lady’s followers. His vibrant purple eyes droop in a sign of obvious disappointment. “This is a celebration, Lieutenant. You must join us!”

 _Oh, bloody hell._ Malcolm opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. Three faces stare expectantly up at him, which is when Commander Tucker swoops in to save his ass from the torture of remaining diplomatic.

“There ya are, Lieutenant!” The Southerner drapes an arm across Malcolm’s shoulders and gives him a small shake. “Lost ya in the crowd there. C’mon, Cap’n Archer wants you for somethin’.” Addressing the Lady and her followers, Trip gives a polite bow and says, “I’m sorry fer stealin’ the Lieutenant away from ya, Your Lady Grace. Official matters.”

“I understand, Commander,” says the Lady, obviously already under the influence of the Tucker Charm.

Malcolm breathes a sigh of relief as he’s led away from the pestering trio. Province leader or not, Lady Grenan could learn a bit about personal space. “Thanks, Commander.”

“Anytime, Malcolm.” Trip lets go of the Lieutenant and grins. “You looked like you needed some resucin’.”

“My knight in shining armour,” says Malcolm sarcastically. “Now, should I assume what you said about the Captain was real, or…?”

“I made the entire thing up if that’s what yer askin’. Thought things would go smoother if I had a legitimate excuse.”

Malcolm laughs. “Smart. Hey, are these plastic or food?” He holds up a rough, round lump of something a brilliant yet impossible shade of blue. Trip picks another one off the plate, studies it, then pops it in his mouth.

“Food,” he announces.

“Trip, you can’t just do that!” Malcolm exclaims. “What if it’s been poisoned? We should probably scan these-”

“Would you calm down, Malcolm?” Trip snatches the scanner out of Malcolm’s hand and pockets it. “Y’could be seen as rude scannin’ their food like that. ‘sides, they’re not out ta poison us. I feel fine. Now, open up.”

Without thinking, Malcom obliges.

The odd blue lump melts almost immediately on his tongue. It tastes sweet, kind of tangy too.

“There.” Trip’s voice is low and, despite the constant boom of music and overlapping chatter, it might as well be the only sound in the room. “Does that taste anythin’ like poison, Lieutenant?”

“No,” Malcolm mutters. It’s then that he realizes Trip’s fingertip still lingers on his bottom lip, the touch sending explosions through his body and fire erupting across his cheeks.

The two men break contact immediately. “Uh, told ya,” Trip remarks quickly, smugly. “Perfectly fine.”

Malcolm refuses to met Trip’s eyes, blush not fading in the slightest, as he stammers, “I still think standard protocol should-”

“Fer cryin’ out loud, Malcolm, if anyone was gonna do somethin’ nefarious they woulda done it already. These people – their only danger to use is potential suffocation from lack of personal space.” This earns a snort from Malcolm. “You were even allowed yer weapon in here, _plus_ two security men. I thought you’d be chill.”

“As chief tactical officer,” Malcolm retorts, “I can’t afford to be _chill._ ”

“Right. Just icy as hell,” Trip quips dryly.

Malcolm bristles, and only just manages to keep his voice level as he says, “feel free to enjoy yourself, Commander, but I still have a job to do.”

Trip’s face burns red. “Fine. But next time yer bein’ hounded by some government lady an’ her minions, don’t expect me to come an’ save ya.” He storms off with a huff, disappearing among the crowd.

Guilt quickly replacing the anger, Malcolm’s face falls, and he shuffles over to the nearest banquet table, fingers gripping the edge to keep himself balanced. The room sways around him, the sheer number of people beginning to feel suffocating.

Deep breaths. Damn, when did that become difficult? C’mon, Reed, concentrate. In, out. In, out. You’ve been doing this all your life. In, out.

Someone lays their hand on his arm. Though the touch is gentle, Malcolm starts, backing up further into the table. He blinks rapidly, and the smudge of light and colour soon morphs into one very concerned Doctor Phlox.

“Lieutenant?”

Malcolm grumbles in response. His tongue is too heavy for words.

“Lieutenant, are you alright?”

 _Do I look alright?_ He wants to say. _I’m having an allergy attack._

“My scans say you may be reacting to something you’ve ingested,” the doctor says, unknowingly echoing Malcolm’s thoughts. “Come with me. We’ll fine a nice, quieter place to sit down and I’ll administer an antihistamine.”

Malcolm lets himself be lead through the blinding, colourful assortment of lights. What else can he do? His face has begun to swell, affecting his speech and sight. He lowers his head self-consciously and hopes no one pays him any mind.

“By _Aldri,_ what's happened to you, warrior?”

Hopes are dashed. That voice is easily recognizable as Minister Pir, one of the Lady’s followers who was bugging him earlier.

“The Lieutenant is having a rather unfortunate reaction to something he has eaten,” Phlox answers plainly. He lowers Malcolm into a seat, less comfortable than the ones at the banquet table so it must be one of the rows on the far side of the room.

He hears a bag unzipped, soon followed by the _shink_ of a hypospray being capped, then something cool presses into the side of his neck.

The effect is instantaneous. Malcolm draws in a single, gasping breath, relieved to finally taste that sweet oxygen again. He slouches backwards despite the mental berating in his mind for his posture. He can feel his lungs expanding and deflating, his throat slowly opening to allow for better airflow. It will take a few minutes for the swelling to go down, though. In the meantime, he’ll just sit and listen.

“A reaction to something he has eaten?” Minister Upola is echoing, tone laced with confusion. “Has he been poisoned?”

“Oh, no, don’t worry,” Phlox responds with a chuckle. “Lieutenant Reed suffers from allergies to various compounds found in, oh, all sorts of things! Food, nature, animals.”

“A–alair-gees?” Pir repeats uncertainly.

“Pardon my followers, doctor,” The Lady finally steps in. “We’ve never heard of this… ‘alair-gees’ before. What is it? Is it harmful?”

The swelling has reduced significantly, allowing Malcolm to open one eye. Phlox’s expression is one of pure puzzlement and Malcolm just has to laugh.

“Er, well. An allergy is a reaction, ranging from severe to minor, one’s body gives from something most others find harmless. Ah, pollen, certain foods, that sort of thing.”

Four and a half pairs of eyes widen. “But how fascinating!” exclaims Minister Upola with a clap of his hands. Vibrant purple irises drill into Malcolm, and the Lieutenant wonders if it’s too late to fake passing out. “I don’t believe any such thing exists here on Ihoblaq. Truly, an interesting discovery. Our scientists would love it if they could study further and compare notes, I’m sure, doctor.”

“I’d be happy to share my knowledge on the subject, Minister,” Phlox assures.

The swelling almost completely gone by now, Malcolm makes a move to stand, his chair squeaking and snapping all attention back to him.

“Lieutenant.” The Lady is quick to move in front of him. “As someone with an alair-gees, your input would be much appreciated as well.”

Malcolm glances nervously to Phlox, who only shrugs, then back to the Lady, then up to the main room, catching Trip’s eye. _Please,_ he mouths.

Trip turns and walks away.

 _Well, shit._ Malcolm looks down at the expectant Lady and weighs his options rapid-fire. In the end, it doesn’t seem like he has much choice. “Um… sure, Your Lady. I’ll be happy to assist.”

“But not tonight,” Phlox interrupts hastily. “Lieutenant, you’ve been on your feet long enough, and I know for a fact you got less than four hours of sleep last night. I’m afraid it’s bedtime for you.”

“Ah- doctor,” Malcolm stutters. “You can’t be serious. I have my duties-”

“Which your staff are more than capable of carrying out.”

“The banquet has only an hour at most left in it,” Minister Pir chimes in. “We have noticed many of your people are also retiring to their quarters. Even the strongest warrior must rest, Lieutenant Reed. Your Captain will understand.”

Even Malcolm knows when he’s trapped. He takes one last forlorn glance at Phlox – he’s never hated that smile more in his life – and sighs, before turning and heading towards the stairs.

* * *

From the cover of the crowd, Trip watches Malcolm slink off up the stairs. His own emotions confuse him at the moment. Is he feeling guilty or irritated? Maybe a bit of both. Guilty because he stopped Malcolm from scanning something he’d obviously been allergic to, but also irritated because… well, it ran in the Tucker blood.

 _Or is that just pettiness?_ ponders a voice in the back of his mind.

Trip ignores it and turns back to the Captain, who is raising his third drink in the air as a toast and wobbling a bit on his feet. Trip smirks. He’s known Jon long enough to identify the signs of drunkenness, and Jon is one drink away from complete autobiography.

Oh, well. The party is winding down now anyway.

He catches Hoshi on her way out and the two exchange a smile. Hoshi, the linguistic goddess, was unashamedly offered the best room of the house. The Ihoblaqi were in complete awe at her abilities, virtually demanding they tell her every little detail of her job.

Trip has been spared the last three days, fortunately. One of the few lucky ones. Engineering is not a big deal on this planet – which is surprising, given that T’Pol initially described them as a scientifically-driven culture. Maybe mechanical science is just not in their top ten. Trip can live without the spotlight for a little while.

“I’m gonna turn in,” he informs Jon, setting his empty glass on the banquet table. The captain offers a wave and slurs “a’ight” before turning back to his conversation partner: a young Ihoblaqi woman with pale skin and bright pink hair. Astonishingly, not dyed. Ihoblaq is a planet of colours.

He’s caught by a few other people his way upstairs. A pair of drunk ensigns asking who he has a crush on; a petite Ihoblaqi with eager purple eyes who asks him things he doesn’t really understand. It’s only when he reaches the door to his room that he remembers – he and Malcolm have a conjoined space.

It’s dark when he opens the door. However, a hasty rustling of sheets gives away the fact that the other occupant is wide awake. “Who’s there?”

“Me.”

“Who’s… oh, Commander. What are you doing here?”

“Didya forget we share a room?” Trip sighs and flings off his shirt. He uses his hands to navigate the darkness, though he is tempted to turn on the lights, just to piss Malcolm off. “I’m jus’ glad we’re not sharin’ a bed.”

 _Liar,_ his mind says, and Trip’s face heats up. Damn him if he’s thinking about this now. Malcolm would shoot him if he knew Trip’s feelings for him.

“You and me both.” Malcolm flops back against his pillow. “You’d think, all this space and they _still_ have to pair us up.”

“At least Hoshi an’ Cutler don’t seem ta mind.”

Malcolm grunts in response, clearly not interested in conversation. Trip crawls under the covers himself but doesn’t fall asleep right away. Instead, he lies on his back, eyes open; he listens to Malcolm’s gentle breathing.

“I’m sorry,” Trip eventually whispers.

Malcolm’s breath catches. It’s minute, but it’s there. “Pardon?”

“Sorry for, ah, the thing. Y’know.” Trip waves his hand vaguely before realizing it’s too dark for Malcolm to see. “The scannin’ thing. I shoulda let ya-”

“All due respect, Commander,” Malcolm grumbles, “I would very much like to get to sleep.”

Trip shuts his mouth. After a very, very long pause he mutters “oh”. There’s no response. Malcolm is already asleep – or at least pretending to be.

Trip sighs in annoyance and rolls onto his side, his back facing Malcolm. He closes his eyes.

* * *

Trip blinks and stretches his arms over his head, moaning softly as his muscles loosen – then he promptly freezes. Something is wrong.

It doesn’t take long to figure out what.

The surface beneath him is uneven and spongey, nowhere near as comfortable as the bed he was assigned. He rolls onto his side and collides directly with a stone wall. Also odd. His bed, though near a wall, is not right up against it.

Trip fumbles for a lamp which isn’t there, all the while widening and squinting and blinking his eyes, hoping to identify something that will give his location. His head feels like a shuttlepod ran over it. No, two shuttlepods. Trip frowns.

“Malcolm?” he calls softly into the darkness. He’s not exactly sure why he’s whispering so he tries again, louder this time. “Malcolm, you there?”

Silence. No, wait. A soft groan, coming from… coming from where? Close, somewhere close.

Trip swings his legs over the “bed”, yelping in pain and shock when his heels smack directly into concrete. He’s not even a foot above the floor. Just where the hell is he?

Lights flicker on with nearly comedic timing. Bright lights. Trip screws his eyes shut against the glare. God, this is making his headache so much worse.

From somewhere to the right a door opens, the shrill sound of metal against metal grating on Trip’s ears, then it slams shut with an echoing clang. Hurried footsteps follow and then an unfamiliar voice speaks: “I see you’ve awoken!”

Finally, Trip has accustomed to the light enough that he can open his eyes. It’s only a crack but it’s enough to take in his surroundings. _Prison cell,_ he thinks instantly.

Two of the four walls boxing him in are painted a sickening light green color, almost pastel-like. The third and fourth walls, the ones he has the clearest view of, are composed mostly of windows, the only solid surface being the frame running up the sides and across the ceiling. Behind the glass on the fourth wall stands an Ihobaq man dressed in the universal white lab coat, a massive grin on his face showcasing both rows of small, flat teeth. His eyes are the brightest shade of yellow Trip has ever seen.

“Where am I?” Trip asks.

The Ihoblaqi scientist disregards his question and chooses instead to study something on the round device in his hands. “Do not be concerned,” he says evenly. “Rest assured you’ll be treated with the utmost care and caution while you’re here.”

“Where is _here_?” Trip asks again.

Once again, he receives no answer. “You may call me Doctor Jdal, Commander Tucker. I will be overseeing the experiments-”

“Experiments?” Trip echoes in a much higher octave than normal.

“-on you and the Lieutenant-Warrior Reed. Don’t worry, your ship knows you are here.”

“Me and…” The realization sinking in, Trip whirls towards the second window-wall just in time to see Malcolm stumble unsteadily to his feet. “Malcolm!” Trip presses himself against the glass like a child wanting to see an aquarium. “Malcolm, are you alright?”

Malcolm groans, massaging both temples with two fingers. “Aside from one killer of a headache, I appear to be fine. Where are we?”

 _Ain’t that the question,_ Trip thinks bitterly. “Well, I asked-” he gestures to Doctor Jdal “-but that guy wouldn’t tell me.”

“You are in rooms 5C and 6C of our Science and Medical facility in the Kaiakari province,” the doctor replies cheerfully. “Do not be alarmed, Lieutenant-Warrior Reed. You will be treated with the same level of respect as any of our sentient patients. Your ship knows you are here. I will be back later with further details, and then we shall begin our first stage of the experiments.”

 _Facility. Sentient patients. Experiments._ None of it sounds good, none of it at all. As Doctor Jdal trots out of the room, Trip glances at Malcolm. It’s clear from his expression that they’re both thinking the same thing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two is here. Neither one of us are particularly knowledgeable of medical stuff (although I do suffer minor allergies) so some things may be inaccurate or just plain made up in the future.

“Still have yer phase pistol?”

“Nope.”

“Figures.”

Trip sits on his poor excuse for a bed, one leg stretched out and the other curled in, his arm resting on his knee, watching Malcolm pace around the adjoining room. Cell, he should say. He’s still imprisoned against his will no matter how clean and tidy this place is.

“Would ya quit doing that?” Trip hollers at the antsy Lieutenant. “Yer gonna wear a hole in the floor.”

“Good. Perhaps I’ll be able to use it to dig out of here.”

Trip hopes the aliens understand what sarcasm is. They’re being monitored – a fact which was confirmed earlier when Trip was complaining about there being no bathrooms. An Ihoblaq barely half the size of Trip had wandered in and told him all too politely that if Trip were to touch the far left corner of the back wall, a door would open up, leading to the facilities. “Adapted for human usage,” the alien had said.

What a relief it was to know that the toilets were usable, Trip thought sarcastically.

“Do you think the ship knows we’re here?” Malcolm asks.

Trip rolls his head to look at the Lieutenant. “Doctor J-whatever said they do.”

“Do you believe him?”

Trip falls silent. “No,” he admits finally. “Why’re you askin’? You don’t have a secret communicator on you, do you?”

Malcolm shakes his head. “They stripped me of everything I had. Least they didn’t take my clothes.”

“I think I should start sleepin’ in full clothes, too,” Trip mutters, looking down at his bare torso. “Just in case I get kidnapped durin’ the night again.”

“At least you still have your pants.”

“I guess.”

A metal door creaks open no sooner than five seconds after the words have left Trip’s mouth. It’s like they were waiting for the conversation to stop.

Doctor Jdal comes into view, trailed by a slightly taller scientist with light blue skin and fuzzy, pearl white hair. Trip’s a little surprised at this new person’s height. The Ihoblaqi only grow to a mere four foot ten by adulthood – and Jdal must be at least five feet.

“I apologize to keep you both waiting,” Doctor Jdal addresses the humans. “It took longer than we expected to gather enough information to prepare properly, but I am pleased to announce that we are ready to begin testing. This is Doctor Inga.” He gestures to the Ihoblaqi beside him. “Doctor Inga will be in charge of administering the regular injections and keeping track of the results.”

Inga rather reminds Trip of a human teenager. Uninterested, would rather be elsewhere.

“Injections?” Malcolm echoes. “Excuse me, Doctor, but we still haven’t the faintest idea what is going on here. I’d like to speak to Captain Archer before-”

“We’ve already spoken with him and your ship,” Jdal informs them. “There is no need to worry. Doctor Inga and their team will take good care of you. Oh, before I go! Lieutenant-Warrior Reed, I realize I never got the opportunity to thank you for your willing participation. It is most appreciated.”

Trip turns his head slowly, gaze drilling into Malcolm. “Lieutenant?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Malcolm says hastily. His eyes are narrowed, muscles tense, obvious signs of his anger. “I don’t recall ever volunteering myself to be subjected to experimentation. I don’t even know what these experiments are even for.”

Doctor Jdal tilts his head forward, one eye bobbing slightly above the other. “I am confused, I must admit. Doctor Inga?”

The fuzzy-haired Ihoblaq raises their head, revealing a single half-lidded purple eye. It blinks lazily, then, almost robotically, Inga launches into a deadpanned explanation: “Last night during the Ceremony of Togetherness, Lieutenant-Warrior Reed suffered what his species call an “alair-gee attack”. It is an illness of sorts to substances most others find harmless. We of Ihoblaq have never heard of such a condition and asked to study it further. Lieutenant-Warrior Reed said, quote, “I’ll be happy to assist”.”

Doctor Jdal beams proudly. Inga returns to staring off into space from beneath their shaggy white hair. Meanwhile, Trip stares at Malcolm, dumbstruck, while all colour leaves Malcolm’s face until it’s virtually as pale as Inga’s hair. “I… I don’t…”

“It is a great honour to be studying such a remarkable ailment in this amount of detail,” Jdal rambles. “I must thank you again, Lieutenant. This ‘alair-gees’ is certainly fascinating.” He starts to walk away, boots clicking against the smooth floor.

Suddenly, Malcolm lurches back into action and, throwing himself against the glass, yells, “hang on a minute!”

Jdal stops and turns, smile still on his face. “Yes?”

“ _I_ may have consented, but _he_ didn’t.” Malcolm thrusts a finger in Trip’s direction. “He doesn’t even have allergies anyway. Let him go.”

Inga and Jdal share a look. It’s the white-haired Ihoblaq who says, “We know. Commander-Engineer Tucker is our control subject.”

“He still did not consent.”

“On the contrary,” Inga continues. “He was stopped last night at the Ceremony of Togetherness by my own assistant. She asked Tucker if he knew Lieutenant-Warrior Reed, and Tucker responded, quote, “yeah, I know ‘im”.”

 _Are Ihoblaqi mimics?_ Trip thinks offhandedly.

“My assistant went on to inquire about Reed’s ailment of alair-gees and asked if he’d share any info. He said, quote, “I dunno what I can help with but sure. Tomorrow”.”

Now it’s Malcolm’s turn to glare at Trip.

“I don’t remember that,” Trip mutters.

Inga nods. “My assistant mentions you had drunk quite a number of our _Tari-Tai_ drinks. It is known to affect memories on most species’ physiologies. You will be seeing my assistant shortly. Perhaps you will remember her then.”

“Now that everything’s under control,” Jdal says hopefully. “I’m afraid it’s time I return to my own administrative duties. You have total control, Doctor Inga. I look forward to the first test’s results.”

Inga scarcely acknowledges the other doctor, their eye focused so intently on Trip. It freaks him out. “What?” the engineer exclaims, irritated. “Do I have a pimple or somethin’?”

“You are without upper clothing wear.”

A strange sound comes from Malcolm’s cell. A sound almost like…

_Damn that bastard, he’s trying not to laugh!_

“This is inappropriate,” Inga adds. “You will be given upper clothing wear when I return.” Then they turn and abruptly walk out of the room, allowing Malcolm to erupt into uncontrollable chuckles.

“If I could throw something at you, I would,” Trip grumbles.

“I apologize, Commander.” Malcolm coughs and runs a hand through his hair. “They just remind me so much of T’Pol.”

Trip’s lips stretch into a grin of his own. “Yeah,” he says. “They kinda do, don’t they?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re falling for another alien.”

“What? No! Malcolm, c’mon! I don’t have goddamn Stockholm syndrome or anythin’!”

As the Lieutenant collapses into a fit of laughter once again, Trip ponders on the strength of the glass between them.

* * *

The moment of lightheartedness passes quickly, making way for the crushing truth of their predicament to sink in. No clear-cut way to escape from the prison they’ve found themselves in; no way to overpower the Ihoblaqi even with the apparent lack of actual security. Small they may be, but, like Malcolm, their physical strength is surprising. The ever-distracted Inga could probably take down both of them in a heartbeat – and that comes from Malcolm.

“Yer underestimatin’ yerself,” Trip says. “You could take them.”

“Alone, maybe.”

“You sayin’ I’m slowin’ ya down?”

“No, Commander. I’m saying that while I could probably take Doctor Inga, even with what you call _your help_ , they’re not the only one in this place.”

Trust Malcolm to deadpan in a jab at Trip in a time like this.

“Hey – I’m not that bad at defendin’ myself,” Trip protests playfully. “I passed my last exam.”

“Barely.”

“Now, that ain’t fair. You were goin’ easy on Hoshi an’ went all out when it came ta me.”

“I was not going easy on Ensign Sato. She merely did better than you.”

Trip doesn’t have time to come up with a comeback, for the door screeches open and dozens of clicking footsteps start making their way down the hall, accompanied by the obvious squeak of a wheel. A trolley, maybe.

 _Trolley._ Trip scoffs. _I’ve been spending too much time around Malcolm._

Three Ihoblaqi stop in front of Malcolm’s cell first. One of them, the tallest one, is Inga again, but the other two are new. Both females, about as high as Trip’s shoulders. The one on the left sports bright pink hair.

Trip blinks. _Pink hair…_

He’s seen this one before. She was talking to Archer before Trip left the party. She caught Trip in the hall last night.

_“Do you know Lieutenant-Warrior Reed?”_

_“Uh, yeah. I know ‘im. He’s my friend.”_

Pulling himself back to the present, Trip watches as a door appears out of nowhere on the glass separating Malcolm and the corridor. The three Ihoblaqi step inside, pulling their cart in with them. Malcolm’s standing on the far side of the room, muscles tense, hands curled into fists. “What are you doing?” he hisses.

“Experiment number one,” Inga answers dispassionately as they select a hypospray from the cart. “Tilt your head to the far right, please.”

Malcolm doesn’t budge.

Inga lets out a sound which seems to be a sigh. “I do not wish to use force. Please tilt your head to allow for the administration of Scheshel.”

“What’s Scheshel?” Trip pipes up.

The pink-haired Ihoblaqi turns to him and smiles. “Scheshel is the pollen of one of our native fruit flowers. We use it in various foods around the province-”

She’s interrupted by a sudden clatter – Malcolm has kicked the cart over. He moves quickly, knocking the third Ihoblaqi woman to the ground with an impressive jab before moving his attention to Pink Hair.

Malcolm is fast, but he’s outnumbered two to one. With a thud that makes Trip wince, Inga smacks one of their balled up three-fingered hands onto Malcolm’s head and he drops to the floor, unmoving. Pink Hair calmly injects the hypospray of Sche-whatever into his neck. She then reaches into her pocket and pulls out a plain metal bracelet, clasping it around Malcolm’s wrist.

“I warned him,” Inga tuts, shaking their head. “Surely, as a warrior, he must know that we are stronger.”

“He had to try,” Trip snaps. “That’s his job. He didn’t know if he’d succeed but he had to try.”

Inga only shakes their head again and packs up the scattered items. The Ihoblaqi which Malcolm knocked out regains consciousness, glancing about, a little confused. The three of them leave Malcolm’s cell and the door turns invisible once again.

“How do you do that?” Trip asks despite himself. “The door, I mean. It’s cool.” Predictively, he gets no answer.

“Here is some upper clothing wear.” Inga tosses a piece of fabric at his feet. “Please put it on so we can administer the Scheshel.”

Trip pulls the shirt on, relieved to finally have something to cover his chest. It’s not all that cold in his cell but it’s not exactly warm either. “What makes you think I’ll jus’ let ya inject me with that?” He gestures to the hypospray in Pink Hair’s hand.

Inga looks positively fed up; their one eye droops even further. “You have nothing to gain from objection, Commander-Engineer. Please tilt your head to the far right.”

He doesn’t have much choice. For a minute he debates trying to attack his captors, but a quick glance at Malcolm dissuades this idea.

“Wrist, please,” says Pink Hair. “Any wrist.” She clicks a metal bracelet, identical to the one she put on Malcolm, around it. As soon as the sides are connected, any evidence of a clasp disappears. Trip stares at it in awe.

“The bracelet will monitor all vital signs,” says the third Ihoblaqi who hasn’t spoken up until now. Trip is surprised at how deep her voice is. “You cannot take it off without the proper equipment. Please do not try.”

The trio push their cart out of Trip’s room. Now safe on the other side of the glass, Inga turns to the only conscious human and asks, “do you desire contact?”

“Wh-what?” Trip blurts.

“With the Lieutenant-Warrior,” they clarify. “If you wish it, I can remove the wall between you.”

Trip eyes them warily. “Permanently, or temporarily?”

“It is permanent.”

Trip exhales slowly and stares at Malcolm’s crumpled form in the next room. Worry begins to spiral, growing bigger and bigger in his chest. “Yeah,” he chokes out.

Inga procures a round device out of no where and presses a button, and the glass wall between Trip and Malcolm’s cell sinks into the floor. It closes seamlessly behind it, once again leaving no trace of the wall ever existing.

“It was necessary to keep you separated at first,” Inga explains in a bored tone. “However, now that experiment one is underway, you are allowed togetherness. Please refrain from copulation or intimate touching of the lips together, as I know is a custom in human relationships. Such things have the possibility of creating… issues.”

Blush spreads like wildfire across Trip’s face. “Uh… n-no problem, doctor.”

Satisfied, Inga and their assistants leave.

Trip sits very, very still on his mattress for a long moment, attempting to regulate his breathing and calm his libido. Oh, it’s not like he hasn’t _thought_ about this before, it’s not like he hasn’t fantasized, um, certain things. But now that it’s been said out in the open like that, he can’t stop the flood of images rushing to his brain.

Eventually, he manages. He doesn’t really know how. Maybe it’s the fact that Malcolm’s still out cold on the floor just a mere few feet away; maybe it’s the sudden realization that Malcolm’s likely highly allergic to whatever the aliens injected them with if Trip is interpreting their objective right.

Trip gets to his feet and stumbles unceremoniously to Malcolm’s side, kneeling beside him. He seems to have given as much as he got in the earlier scuffle: a dark bruise is appearing on his cheek and his lip is split. Trip can’t be sure, but he thinks Malcolm’s breathing just gained a wheezing quality to it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reupload because my dumb ass posted the wrong version of chapter 3 last night.

Jonathan Archer is an impatient man. He’s often been told this by various people throughout his life: his father, his teachers, his friends. Trip has complained about his lack of patience a few times, too, though Archer always shot back with, “look who’s talking!”

Now, though, Jonathan Archer feels he has a reason for being impatient.

“They keep dodging around their reasoning,” he complains to his First Officer. “Won’t give me a clear answer. Just _‘everything is under control’_ or _‘we will get back to you soon’._ They’re still trying to convince me that all this was consented to!”

“Have you verified their claims?” T’Pol asks coolly.

“I have Phlox coming to the bridge now.” Archer runs a hand down his face. “He was with Malcolm when he supposedly gave his consent. He’ll be able to verify that, at least.”

“And Commander Tucker?”

“No one we know was with him at the time.”

T’Pol nods mutely. Archer studies his science officer carefully, sympathetically. Though she and the Commander have long since split up, their friendship remains somewhat intact – at the very least they still care deeply for each other.

He lays a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll get them back, T’Pol.”

“Indeed, sir. Shall we move to the bridge?”

“Alright.”

Hoshi turns in her seat as the ready room door opens. “Perfect timing, sir. I have Minister Upola on standby right now.”

“Put him through,” Archer says, eyeing Phlox. The doctor stands just off to the side, shuffling uncomfortably, his usual optimistic air gone.

The Ihoblaqi minister’s pale blue face pops up on the view screen, his eyes tilted forwards slightly on their stalks in a sign of interest. “Ah, Captain Archer.”

“Minister,” Archer greets tightly. “I believe we have something to discuss most urgently.”

“Forgive me, Captain, but I thought we were finished in our discussions.”

“Not in the slightest.” The Minister’s vibrant eyes widen at the hostility in Archer’s tone. From off to the side T’Pol clears her throat, and Archer takes the hint. “I still find myself rather confused,” he begins carefully. “I don’t understand why you took my men or why you won’t let me speak to them.”

Upola’s eyes droop slightly. “I assure you, Captain, they are here voluntarily.”

“So you keep guys saying,” Archer mutters behind clenched teeth. “I have my Doctor up on the bridge right now, standing over there. He was with Malcolm at the time consent was given.” He watches Upola’s face, hoping for even the slightest hint of discomfort, but there is none. He turns to Phlox. “Doctor?”

“Erm, yes.” Phlox offers a nervous smile. “I was asked by Minister Upola himself to provide notes on human allergies, which I happily obliged to. Lieutenant Reed was, ah, also asked for his input. He agreed, but I convinced him that right then was not the time.”

Pride is evident on Minister Upola’s face. “You see, Captain? We are not lying. Unless you choose to believe one of your own would deceive you, of course.” He pauses for a moment, perhaps waiting for a retort. When none comes forth, he continues. “Rest assured, your Lieutenant and Commander are safe and being cared for while we conduct our experiments.”

“Experiments?” Archer sputters. “You’re using them as lab rats?”

“What is a _lab rats_?” Minister Upola asks earnestly.

“Wha- never mind, Minister. I just want my people back. Experimentation is considered unethical among humans.”

“In that case, I pity you,” Upola says. “We experiment on our own people, with unbelievably positive results! It has helped us to expand our knowledge and led us on a scientifically driven path. Oh, but please don’t believe us cruel! It is done carefully and precisely and only by the most highly trained of scientists. Not a single being has been killed in over a century.”

“That’s not much of a comfort,” Archer hisses under his breath. “Besides,” he continues louder, “what Malcolm and Trip… _consented_ to was not experimentation. It was a peaceful exchange of knowledge!”

Minister Upola dismisses Archer’s protests with a wave of his hand. “The first experiment is already underway. We cannot stop now.” He smiles, a gesture probably meant to be assuring but comes across as almost menacing. “Your men will be returned to you in five days. Now, I’m afraid I must be going. Duty calls. Goodbye, Captain.”

“Now, hold-”

The screen goes black.

“-on. Damn it!”

Everyone averts their eyes as the Captain slams his hand down on the back of his chair and storms off into his ready room. 

* * *

It’s quiet in their cell, save for Malcolm’s laboured breathing and the occasional scratch of nails against skin when his resolve fails him. There’s no way of knowing exactly how much time has passed but Trip can guess three, maybe four hours have gone by since the injections were administered. The worst seems to be behind them. Malcolm can sit up now, no longer hunched over with his hands wrapped around his waist, gasping like the air’s running out.

Trip spares a glance at him. Malcolm looks royally pissed off, his face twisted in the biggest scowl as he runs a hand along the back of his neck, then curls his fingers to satisfy the growing itches from the hives. He heaves a loud, wheezy sigh.

Suddenly Trip realizes he’s been staring for too long and he hurries to look away, but it’s too late and now Malcolm’s grey eyes are drilling into him.

“All things considered, this isn’t that bad,” the Lieutenant grumbles. Then he twitches awkwardly. “Bloody pain in the arse, though. All this itching.”

“Any idea when it’ll go down?”

Malcolm exhales slowly. “With proper medication I could have warded them off hours ago. Erm, a day maybe? To be honest, I’m not really sure. I’ve always had stuff to help with it.” A wry chuckle escapes his throat. “How pathetic is this, Commander? I’ve been in much worse situations than this and here I am complaining about an itch.”

“Yer not pathetic,” Trip assures him. “Allergies can be serious. One o’ my cousins, her name’s Carrie, she’s really allergic to peanuts. They found that out while she was at some friend’s birthday party when she was six. Took one bite of a peanut butter cookie an’ started scratchin’ all over. Next thing ya know, she’s lyin’ on the floor. Frightenin’ sight, it was.”

“I’m sure.” Malcolm’s lips press into a thin line. “She was alright, I hope?”

“Oh, yeah, right as rain the next day. She’s had a few more scares throughout the years but she’s still goin’ strong. Hates peanuts, though.”

Malcolm scoffs. “That’s because she didn’t persevere long enough.”

“What – like you and pineapple?”

“Exactly.”

They laugh briefly, cut short when Malcolm delves into a coughing fit. Wheezing; sputtering; unable to get a single word out. Trip sits next to him, thumping a hand against his back in a steady rhythm. Finally, Malcolm stabilizes and slumps against the wall once more, eyes shut. Trip stares at him. The sharply defined face, even marred by angry red rashes, is no less beautiful than any of the other times Trip has admired it from afar.

 _As it will always be so,_ he reminds himself, tearing his gaze away. _From afar. That’s as close as you’ll get, Trip. Don’t go expecting otherwise. You’ll only let yourself down._

“Can I ask you something?” Malcolm mutters abruptly.

“Oh. Uh, sure.”

“It’s about your cousin.”

Trip raises an eyebrow. “Yer not gonna ask if she’s single, are you?” _Please don’t ask if she’s single,_ he adds desperately in his mind.

Malcolm laughs. “Lord, no. I wanted to ask… how was she treated?”

“How d’you mean?” Trip asks, confused.

“How was she treated among her family?” Malcolm elaborates. His eyes are open now but focused on the far wall. The emotion in them is undecipherable. “Because of her allergies.”

“What kind of question is that?” Trip laughs nervously. When Malcolm doesn’t join in, he stops, clearing his throat. “Um. No different than anyone else would be treated, I guess. We steered clear of any peanut products for her, though. Why’re you askin’, Malcolm?”

“Just curious,” Malcolm replies, just a little too quickly. “Any idea what time it is? These people do know we require food to survive, right?”

Switching the topic: Malcolm’s top strategy to avoid uncomfortable conversations. Trip hesitates a few moments, unsure if he should push Malcolm further or forget about it. In the end, he decides on the latter. “No idea. And they should. They had all that food out for us.”

“Hm. I do hope they bring in something soon. I couldn’t care less if I’m allergic to it or not.”

Trip laughs and pretends he doesn’t see the seriousness in Malcolm’s eyes.

Another hour or so passes. Trip stands up to stretch his legs when a sudden wave of nausea washes over him. He stumbles, one hand scrambling for the wall to steady himself as the other flies to his forehead.

“Commander?” Malcolm’s voice is laced with concern. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Fine,” Trip responds. The room steadies and he opens his eyes again. “Must’ve stood up too fast.”

Malcolm is still staring at him. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the familiar screech of a metal door opening interrupts him.

Their visitor, an Ihoblaqi neither of them have seen before, pulls up to the cell, pushing a cart in front of him. On it lies a variety of basic dishes and native fruit – and perhaps an attempt at making sandwiches. That is, if thin squares are meant to be the filling. They look like rocks. Trip’s teeth hurt just looking at them.

“Nutrients,” states the alien simply, smiling. He presses a button on his circular remote and the invisible door is suddenly made visible, and the alien walks on through. He shows no hesitation heading straight towards them, but he does stop a few feet away. “Hopefully you find this sustainable until next round.”

“How long have we been here?” Trip jumps to ask.

The alien ponders this question in his head for a few seconds before replying: “it has been sixteen of your hours.”

Trip gapes at him in disbelief. Sixteen hours? They’ve been here for almost a full day?

“When are we being released?” Malcolm asks.

The alien’s attention turns to him and if Trip’s not mistaken, something akin to admiration flashes in the bright yellow eyes. “Experiment one is only just concluding,” explains the alien. “There is still much to be done before your return can be authorized.”

“An’ how long until then?” Trip’s patience, which was already slim to begin with, is starting to wear even thinner.

“Five days, two hours. I hope you find your nourishment satisfactory, Lieutenant-Warrior. Commander-Engineer.” With that, the alien offers one last smile and slips out through the invisible door.

Trip feels like his energy has just been completely sapped away. He falls back onto the mattress with a soft thump, his mind whirring.

“It could be worse,” Malcolm pipes up. “We could be guests to far less hospitable people.”

Trip mumbles glumly in agreement.

Without their scanners, it's impossible to tell whether the food is safe for consumption, but Trip doubts any of it could be dangerous. “Why go through all the trouble of kidnappin’ us, just ta poison us the same day?” he argues.

Regardless, Malcolm insists on going first for every little crumb of every dish. When none of it produces any ill effects, Trip eagerly dives in, having been teetering on the edge of irrational anger for the last few hours now.

The rock sandwiches are much softer than he expected, and surprisingly tasty. Trip eats two while Malcolm nibbles away at some spiky looking fruit. “I’m not all that hungry,” the Lieutenant claims. His grumbling stomach says otherwise and Trip tosses a bag of alien chips at him.

Some time passes before the two receive more company. At first Trip thinks it’s another steward coming to take the cart away, then one set of footsteps turns into two and Doctor Inga and their assistant come to rest in front of the glass.

“Was the food satisfactory?” Inga says as emotionless as ever.

“It was lovely,” Malcolm replies, slightly strained. “Thank you.”

Inga grunts taps on their device, the door to the cell appearing before them. “See that the cart gets returned to the galley, Ziv,” they say to Pink Hair. As the assistant – Ziv – pushes the cart out into the main hall, Inga reaches into their shoulder bag and withdraws a hypospray.

Trip stares at it in trepidation. “What’s that for?”

Inga’s eye widens a fraction, but they don’t offer an answer. “I have noticed an increase in morale among you since you were allowed togetherness,” they say instead. Trip and Malcolm glance at each other. “Is it safe to assume you would not risk losing this?”

Trip may not be a tactical officer, but he knows a threat when he hears once. He shuffles closer towards Malcolm.

“Experiment one revealed some fascinating results,” Inga goes on. “Unfortunately, we were not prepared for some of the results we were given, and the effects wore off before we could properly evaluate them. This contains a stronger dosage of Scheshel for the Lieutenant-Warrior so that we may assess the results thoroughly and clearly. I do regret having to do this.” The last sentence sounds more like an afterthought than an apology.

“Yer injectin’ us with that stuff again?” Trip spits.

“Just Lieutenant Reed,” Inga responds evenly.

Malcolm rolls his eyes and mumbles “of course” under his breath.

Inga takes a step forward. Trip, seized by a flash of protectiveness, wraps his arm around Malcolm’s shoulder and pulls him closer. “Yer not touchin’ him.”

At least this garners something other than an exasperated sigh from Inga. “Must we do this again, Commander Tucker? There is nothing you can do against it. If you insist on keeping up this defiance, I’m afraid I’ll have no choice but to separate you two once more.”

His stomach does a backflip. In his heart he knows that the best thing to do would be to shuffle away – together, he can at least help Malcolm through the worst of the symptoms – but his grip still tightens.

“Step away from Lieutenant-Warrior Reed, please, Tucker.”

“Commander,” Malcolm finally says in a low voice. “Do what they say.”

Trip’s eyes flash to Malcolm’s, and he sees his own fear reflected in them, and he realizes Malcolm's just as scared of separation as he is.

So, Trip drops his arm and side-shuffles out of the way. He watches, helpless, as Inga injects the hypospray into Malcolm’s neck. The Ihoblaqi leave without a second glance while Malcolm slumps forward, head in his hands. He doesn’t say anything – neither does Trip. Each of them wait in silence for the effects to start anew. 

* * *

The rational side of Malcolm's mind keeps reminding him that scratching at the rashes on his body will only make it worse, but the rough fabric of the blanket doesn’t make it easy for him to follow his own advice. He tosses and turns restlessly, muttering as he tries, to no avail, to at least find a sleeping position where he can breathe better. With a huff of defeat, he gives in to the urge to try and alleviate the relentless itching that’s keeping him from getting any rest, knowing full well that it won't actually do much to solve his problem.

Trip starts to regret moving his own mattress closer to his companion after a few minutes of listening to him rustle about under the covers, deciding that he's heard enough of the other man's noises of discomfort. "Go to _sleep_ , Malcolm," he mutters in a fed-up tone. "Ya need rest, an' yer keepin' me awake, too."

Malcolm pauses in his scratching and rolls onto his side to glare in Trip’s general direction - not that it makes much of a difference in the total darkness of their cell. "That's rather hard to do when you can't breathe, and it feels like your skin is on fire from how much it itches," he remarks flatly, cringing to himself at how raspy his voice sounds.

"Well, at least quit scratchin' yerself so much, then.” Trip turns his head towards the silhouette of his friend. "Yer gonna make yerself bleed."

Malcolm can’t help but snort at the engineer's remark, but the rebuttal he wanted to make melts into a coughing fit before he has the chance to speak. 

Trip stumbles blindly across the space between their mattresses, kneeling beside Malcolm and resting a hand on what feels like the other man’s shoulder as his lips curve downward into a frown. After a couple minutes, Malcolm's coughing dies down, and when he's pretty sure the other man's regained his ability to breathe as much as he can, Trip speaks up again: "You alright there, Malcolm?"

"Fine," Malcolm croaks. "But I think a little bleeding would be the least of my problems," he adds with a wry chuckle. 

"Still, you don't wanna be givin' yerself any more issues than what these guys are puttin' ya through, right?"

"Technically, this is part of what they're putting me through," Malcolm mutters as he shifts slightly in his lousy excuse of a bed, letting out a gravelly sigh.

"Fair point," Trip says. "Still, though, you don't wanna be bleedin' all over the only bed you've got. It's already not that comfortable to begin with."

"I suppose you're right," Malcolm replies plainly.

He can’t tell how much of the fogginess that’s clouding his mind is from his allergies and how much is from pure exhaustion, but either way, it’s thick enough that he hardly realizes that Trip had come to his side at all, let alone that he was still there even after his coughing fit has subsided, and he _certainly_ doesn't notice the hand on him until he feels the other man absentmindedly rubbing reassuring circles on his shoulder. 

From the way Malcolm tenses up slightly under his touch, Trip worries that he's made him uncomfortable and hesitantly pulls his hand back, murmuring a quiet "sorry." He can’t help but be grateful for the dark as he feels a familiar warmth rise to his cheeks- he must look pretty ridiculous blushing like this, and Malcolm doesn’t need to see that.

"Don't be sorry," Malcolm replies, taking Trip by surprise. "It was actually rather soothing."

"Really?" Trip arches an eyebrow. "Ya kinda tensed up a little."

"It startled me for a moment, but I was just getting used to it when you stopped."

Trip assumes the noise that escapes Malcolm after he says this is supposed to be a chuckle, but it sounds more like a pathetic wheeze. He frowns slightly to himself, choosing not to say anything about it. "You askin' me to keep goin', then?"

"Yes, please," Malcolm croaks out. "If you don't mind."

"'Course I don't," Trip laughs softly to himself before going back to rubbing gentle, reassuring circles into Malcolm's shoulders. “Wouldn’t’ve offered if I did.”

Malcolm hums in appreciation, letting his eyes fall closed as he starts to relax under Trip's touch. "Thanks, Trip," he murmurs sleepily.

"Anytime, Malcolm."

It only takes a few minutes for Malcolm to finally drift to sleep, but Trip decides to stay by his side just a little longer to make sure things stay that way. When he’s fairly certain that his absence won’t wake his friend, he rises to his feet, blindly feeling his way back to his own cot through the darkness of their cell. Once he’s finally managed to situate himself so that he’s laying down, he glances over at the other man, his eyebrows furrowing in concern at how ragged his breathing sounds.

“G’night, Mal,” he murmurs quietly, rolling onto his side before closing his eyes and falling into a dreamless sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo!!! It's ya boi Harley here letting y'all know that Scottie and I realized that Thursday is a random-ass day to post chapter parts, so we're moving it to Friday now (and me getting sick and barely being able to concentrate on anything for longer than 5 minutes certainly had nothing to do with that, pffffft)

“Good morning, Doctor Jdal.”

“Morning, Doctor Inga. I apologize for my tardiness, there was an incident with one of the patients in 4B which required my attention.”

“Oh? Nothing too drastic, I hope?”

“It was resolved with efficiency and the experiments are once again underway. How are the humans doing?”

“There have been some rather interesting developments overnight.”

“I thought you withheld experimentation for the night?”

“I did. However, it seems that the effects from experiment one have lingered.”

“Hm, I see what you mean. This is quite alarming. Have you taken action?”

“Not yet. Their sleep patterns were repeatedly disrupted; I have decided to wait until they both regain full consciousness.”

“Good idea. Well, you seem to have it under control, Doctor Inga. I shall leave you to it. Good day.”

“Good day, Doctor.”

* * *

“Ah, what the hell-?”

Trip groans loudly as his vision is suddenly assaulted with a flood of light, keeping his eyes closed tight as he sits up in bed. 

He squints his eyes open, a wince still evident on his face as he glances around at his surroundings.

“Damn,” he mutters to himself as he realizes where he is. “I was really hopin’ that had all been a dream.”

“More like a nightmare,” Malcolm adds, and Trip can't help but notice that, while his voice is still a bit raspy, it sounds quite a bit better than it had in the night- no doubt due to the fact that most of whatever allergen their captors had injected him with would be mostly out of his system by now. "But I was hoping that, too."

He tries to sit up and is slightly alarmed to realize that something seems to have him partially stuck to the mattress, but with just a little extra effort, he’s able to peel himself off. Trip watches this with wide eyes, concern growing within him as he notices the dark substance dried onto his friend's arms.

"Malcolm, yer _bleedin_ '," he states as if, somehow, the armoury officer wasn’t already aware of that fact. 

"Yes, I can see that," Malcolm replies coolly. "On the bright side, though, it looks like it’s dried up. Not really a big deal."

"This happen to you a lot?" Trip raises an eyebrow inquisitively. "You seem real calm about it."

"No, never." Malcolm shakes his head. 

He tries to swing his legs over the side of his cot and runs into the same problem he had when he first tried to sit up, letting out a soft sigh as he peels his legs away from the mattress. As Trip watches this unfold, he can't decide if he's more alarmed by the fact that it's happening at all, or that Malcolm can be so nonchalant about it.

"Didn't I tell ya not to scratch at yerself so much?" Trip questions, a slightly exasperated tone to his voice.

“I tried not to, but I only have so much self restraint.” Malcolm gives a small, disinterested shrug, a slight smirk making its way onto his lips.

“I shoulda known you wouldn’t listen,” Trip scoffs, shaking his head to himself. 

“Trip, really, I appreciate your concern, but you shouldn’t fret too much about it,” Malcolm laughs lightly. “It’s not like I’m at risk of bleeding out or anything.”

Before Trip can form a rebuttal, their conversation is interrupted by the familiar screech of metal against concrete as the door at the end of the hall opens, shortly followed by the sounds of footsteps and the wheels of a cart. The two men turn to face the farthest window wall, where Pink Hair and an alien who they've never seen before are just making their way into view.

“Good morning,” Pink Hair - Ziv, if Trip recalls correctly - greets. "The two of you rested well, I hope?"

Trip opens his mouth to reply, but judging by the expression on his face, Malcolm can tell that whatever he's about to say won't be kind, and he speaks before the engineer gets the chance to. "We did. Thank you," he replies, glad that the insincerity in his tone seems to have been lost on the pink-haired Ihoblaqi.

"Good." Ziv grins as she pulls the same device that Trip had seen her use the day before from her pocket and taps on the screen a few times, the door reappearing on the wall shortly after. "We’ve brought nutrients," she explains, having noticed the wary looks the two men exchanged as the other alien pushes the cart into the cell. 

“Mighty kind of ya,” Trip mutters, and judging by the expression that briefly flashes across Ziv’s face, he assumes that she picked up on the hostility in his tone. 

“You'll be pleased to know that experiment one was a success," she continues as if she hadn't been interrupted. "My superiors are incredibly fascinated by the results that they saw."

"Can'tcha see that he's _bleedin'_ , fer cryin' out loud?" Trip scoffs, earning a strange look from Ziv. "You seriously call that a success?"

"Your concern is understandable, but rest assured that it is merely the result of raw skin being further irritated." 

Trip wishes, more than anything, that he could wipe that overly cheerful grin from her face.

"I know how bleeding works, thank you," Trip spits, his tone thick with sarcasm. Malcolm shoots him a warning glare, silently pleading with him to not make their stay worse by pissing off their captors, but Trip simply ignores it.

Ziv gives a small nod to the other alien, and they duck to grab something from the bottom of the cart- a bowl of water, some rags, and clean bandages. They set the items on the floor between the two cots before returning to stand beside the cart. "Then you know that you'll need these to clean the Lieutenant-Warrior's wounds and prevent them from bleeding any more. Do so quickly- my superiors wish to start experiment two not long after you have nourished yourselves."

"I beg your pardon?" Malcolm asks incredulously.

"There are far too many variables for us to be able to study all of them with one test," Ziv explains, and Trip can't help but be amazed by how casually she can say all of this. "We wish to gather as much information as we can on _alair-gees_ so that we can gain a more thorough understanding of it."

"You want a more thorough understandin' o' these allergies?" Trip looks like he's about to erupt with anger, and Malcolm can't help but worry about what the next thing out of the engineer's mouth will be. "Here's all you hafta know- he's bleedin' like that because of _yer_ experiment, and if you put anythin' else in him, then scratchin' at himself until he bleeds'll be the least of his problems. He could _die_!"

"We have no intentions of letting that happen, Commander-Engineer Tucker," Ziv assures him, her tone still alarmingly nonchalant. "I can assure you, if the situation becomes too concerning, then we will step in to ensure it doesn't grow worse."

"That ain't much of a comfort," Trip spits. "You already kidnapped us to bring us here. Why should we trust a single thing that comes out of that ug-"

" _Trip_ ," Malcolm interrupts, his tone firm with warning. "That's enough. It won't do us any good if we anger them."

"You would be wise to listen to the Lieutenant-Warrior, Tucker," Ziv states simply. "Or you may be separated for the rest of the experiment."

Trip opens his mouth to make a rebuttal, but whatever smartass remark his brain would have supplied him with melts away under Malcolm's stern, yet pleading, glare. He remembers the fearful looks they had exchanged the day before, when they were last threatened with separation, and decides against seeing how many of Pink Hair's buttons he could push before she snaps. Instead, he mutters a half-hearted, "Sure thing."

Ziv nods, the smallest hint of a triumphant grin making an appearance on her face. "Nourish yourselves," she instructs. "We will begin experiment two in one hour."

With that, she uses her little device to make the cell door reappear, and she and the alien steward walk out and back down the hall from which they came. Trip spends a moment grumbling to himself in his cot before Malcolm breaks the silence.

"You know, it almost seems like you're _trying_ to get us separated.”

Trip scoffs. “What makes ya say that?”

“Oh, only just about everything about that little interaction I just watched.”

Trip fixes his gaze on Malcolm, an agitated expression on his face. “Well, I mean… can ya blame me for bein’ a little angry? We're in a real aggravatin' situation here."

"One that we won't be able to talk ourselves out of, so there's no point in even trying," Malcolm sighs solemnly, sliding himself off of his cot and onto the floor.

“So what are we s'posed ta do, then? Jus' sit 'ere an' wait for Jon ta bust in an' save the day?"

Malcolm nods forlornly before adding, "Or muddle through five more days of this." He moves within reach of the rags, grabbing one and dipping it into the bowl of water. 

"'m not sure if you can make it through five more days o' this, Mal," Trip murmurs, his tone full of genuine concern for the armoury officer. He watches the other man intently as he begins to clean the dried blood off his skin, noting the pain that briefly flashes across his face whenever he hits a particularly sore spot. “Here, let me help,” he offers, already joining him on the floor and reaching for the other rag.

“Trip, I’m fine,” Malcolm protests.

“Like hell you are. You’ve got the self-preservation instincts of a goddamn-” 

Trip goes mute when he sees the expression that Malcolm is fixing him with- the look in his eyes practically shouts, ' _See what happens if you finish that sentence. Go ahead, I dare you_.’ Anyone with half a brain would stop talking if they saw their ship’s armoury officer giving them a staredown that could put the look their mom gave them when they got in trouble at school to shame, and even though Malcolm’s all out of whack from his allergies, Trip knows he could still kick his ass if he’s pissed.

“At least let me help with yer back an’ shoulders,” Trip finishes softly. He raises an eyebrow and dares to add, “unless you can somehow turn yerself into a pretzel.”

The corner of Malcolm’s mouth twitches in amusement. “Fine, then,” he relents. 

Trip reaches over to grab the bowl of water, a smug grin spreading across his face. He swears he feels his breath hitch when he brings his attention back to Malcolm and sees him topless, staring back at him patiently. 

In an instant, all of the thoughts that he'd had in his mind are replaced with a simple ' _wow_.' The sight of Malcolm’s bare torso, slim though fit, his broad shoulders; it sends a million different images and fantasies through Trip’s mind. He feels heat creep up to his face – as well as down to other areas – before the other man's voice breaks through the trance he'd fallen into.

"You say something, Trip?"

"Hm?" Trip tears his gaze from Malcolm's chest to his eyes, noticing the inquisitive expression on his face. ' _Shit, don't tell me I was thinking out loud_ -' 

"I said, did you say something?" Malcolm laughs lightly, staring expectantly at the other man. 

' _Christ, does he even realize how gorgeous he looks right now?_ ' Trip thinks to himself. "Oh, uh, no," he stammers out. "Just, uh…" Forcing himself back into gear, he sputters, “turn around,” after an abnormally long pause, dipping the rag into the bowl of water to dampen it.

Malcolm nods and turns so his back now to the other man. “I doubt it’s too bad back there,” he comments as the other man runs the washcloth up and down his back. “It’s not like I could reach there too well.”

The newly exposed skin begins to sting as the cool air hits it, but fortunately Malcolm has had years of practice in schooling his features. This is fortunate, not only because of the sting, but because every minute touch of Trip’s hand sends mini electric shocks up his spine. “Thanks,” he hears himself whisper, breathlessly.

“No problem. Almost done here, then I can help ya with the rest.”

The rest? Malcolm tenses involuntarily and Trip’s little grunt of surprise indicates he’s noticed this. “I can do everything else myself,” the tactical officer says stiffly. 

“Aw, c’mon, Malcolm.”

“ _Trip._ ”

“Jus’ shut it an’ let me help, will ya?”

Malcolm lets a huff of annoyance pass his lips as he abruptly spins to face Trip again. Even if irritated, there’s the tiniest bit of amusement in his expression. “Bloody hell, Trip, I’m not an invalid. I can wash my own arms and legs.”

Trip purses his lips together. “Yeah,” he whispers softly. “Yeah, right. Sorry, Malcolm.” Dropping the pink stained rag into the bowl of water, Trip lets his shoulders droop and shuffles backwards slightly. He looks like a kicked puppy, so damn dejected, and Malcolm instantly regrets the harsh tone in his words.

And not only that - he finds himself _missing_ Trip’s touch.

‘ _Oh, lord. Am I…? No. Nope. Stop thinking like that,_ ’ he mentally scolds himself, shaking his head as if to clear his mind of the thought. ‘ _Nothing good will come of it._ ’

“Actually,” Malcolm stammers, “perhaps I could… use the help, after all.” Trip glances up, the spark in his eye rekindled. Malcolm continues. “I’m quite, erm, shaky.”

“You sure?” Trip asks tentatively.

 _Oh, god, I am._ “It wouldn’t kill me.” 

They end up in agreement. Malcolm scrubs his own thighs - the idea of having Trip’s hand so _near_ makes him extremely lightheaded - and Trip can help with his shoulders and upper arms.

The two men sit in comfortable silence as Trip gently cleans the rest of the blood off of Malcolm's back, the only sound that fills their cell being the soft splashing of water as the engineer dips the rag into the bowl. Despite his reluctance to allow himself to be fawned over like this, Malcolm can’t deny that he doesn’t mind the gentle touch from the other man. Perhaps he could get used to letting the engineer take care of him like this.

Just as Malcolm is beginning to worry that the silence, combined with how caring Trip was being, may bring more unwarranted thoughts, he hears his company speak up from behind him. “You better start listenin’ to me when I tell ya not to scratch so much,” he murmurs, earning a light chuckle from the armoury officer.

“I’ll try my best, but I can’t make any promises.” Malcolm shakes his head.

“Yer one stubborn son-of-a-bitch, ya know that?” Trip mutters in a teasing tone.

“So I’ve been told.”

“Any intentions o’ changin’ that anytime soon?”

Malcolm snorts. “Not by the time we're out of here, at least.”

Trip laughs lightly, but doesn’t say anything, just letting their conversation fall back into silence. After a brief moment, Malcolm speaks up again: “You know what I’ve noticed about you over the years, Trip?” 

“What’s that?” Trip murmurs.

“Your accent gets thicker when you’re angry,” Malcolm explains, laughing lightly. “It’s really quite funny.”

“Yeah, I’ve gotten that before,” Trip chuckles softly, the corners of his lips quirking up into a bright smile. “I don’t really hear it, but people say it ‘appens when ‘m real sad or excited, too.”

“Well, it’s true,” Malcolm insists. “Listening to you talk to that lady with the pink hair felt like sitting through another one of those god-awful Westerns you always make me watch with you.”

“It can’t be _that_ bad,” Trip counters.

“Oh, trust me, it is.” Malcolm snorts.

“Whatever.” Trip rolls his eyes to himself. “Turn around so I can get the rest o’ ya cleaned up.”

Malcolm complies, and Trip mentally curses himself as he feels a familiar heat rise to his cheeks under the other man’s expectant stare. He dips the rag into the bowl again and runs it gently up and down Malcolm’s arms, trying to keep his mind focused on the task at hand so it doesn't wander off too far.

When he’s cleaned off all of the blood, Trip reaches for one of the rolls of bandages, taking the opportunity to take inventory of how much they have- two rolls. It doesn't seem like enough for how badly Malcolm's skin is irritated, but all he can really do is use it sparingly and hope that either the aliens have more, or that Malcolm can actually exercise enough restraint to refrain from making it any worse. 

Just like before, Trip starts with Malcolm's back, but as the cloth of the bandage first makes contact with his still sore skin, the armory officer flinches slightly, audibly suppressing a gasp.

“Shh, s'alright,” Trip hears himself whispering. “I’ve just gotta cover these up, m’kay?”

Malcolm nods mutely. He doesn’t twitch again as Trip winds the bandages around his left arm, careful to avoid the glimmering silver bracelet and the horrible memories of how it came to be clasped around. “Turn,” the Commander says, and now they’re face to face yet again- only this time, Trip _swears_ Malcolm is blushing slightly. ' _It’s just my_ imagination,' he tells himself, focusing intently on covering the tender skin. He's never had any experience doing something like this, but when he's finished, he's fairly certain that he's done a decent job. 

“You know,” Malcolm comments, dropping his now wrapped arm, “you have excellent bedside manner. If you weren’t so engrossed in the engine, you’d be an excellent assistant for Phlox.”

For some reason, this compliment - if that’s what it is - makes him blush. “Er, thanks,” he stutters, preoccupying himself with wringing the cloth out again and again. “Um… how’re you feelin’?”

Malcolm rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head slightly to the right. “Rather well, all things considered. Still a tad itchy, however.”

“Well, don’t scratch.”

The corner of Malcolm’s lips twitch upwards in a funny little half smile. “Okay, mother.”

He immediately contradicts his own words by reaching to scratch at his shoulder, but Trip stops him by grabbing his wrist.

"What did I just say?" He mutters in an exasperated tone. "Quit scratchin' at yerself so much, or I won't help next time ya make yerself bleed."

"Do you have to be such a mother hen?" Malcolm rolls his eyes, laughing softly.

"Well, someone's gotta take care o' ya, since you won't do it yerself."

"And neither will our captors, it seems," Malcolm adds with a sigh.

Trip hummed quietly in reply, but any words he thought of to add onto it wouldn't have mattered, since every thought he had in his mind seemed to be lost under that cool grey gaze of the man before him. The engineer couldn’t tell how many nights he dreamt of those eyes staring at him with the same amount of love that he shows Malcolm when he’s not looking, only to wake up to the disappointing reminder of just how unrealistic it was to hope for such a thing. Hell, he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t in one of those moments right now. With any luck, he’d wake up in his quarters, and the usual disappointment he would feel that a moment like this hadn’t been real would be overshadowed with relief that they weren’t actually being experimented on against their will by aliens.

"Trip?" Malcolm murmurs, breaking the silence that had fallen over them.

"Yeah, Mal?" Trip replies, his tone distant - like his mind was either too wrapped up within the moment, or not there at all, and he could hardly tell which was the case. 

"Were you planning on letting go of my hand any time soon?" 

Trip glances at their hands, an all-too-familiar heat rising to his cheeks as he lets go of the other man’s wrist. "Sorry," he stammers out sheepishly, clearing his throat before continuing. “We, uh… we should probably eat somethin’ before those aliens come back. Wouldn’t wanna go through one o’ those experiments on an empty stomach.”

“Good idea.” Malcolm nods, and for a brief moment, he’s almost certain that he sees a brief look of disappointment flash across the other man’s face before he turns away.


	5. Chapter 5

True to Ziv’s word, she and Inga appear approximately an hour later. Ziv is carrying a small opaque glass case. The white-haired alien raises their eye when they see only one human in the little enclosure – which is what Trip has come to call it, since he feels like they’re in a zoo.

“Where is the other?” Inga asks.

Trip jabs a thumb over his shoulder towards the invisible bathroom. “Freshenin’ up after what y’all did ta him.”

Inga shows no reaction. Neither does Ziv. The two aliens merely engage in a staring match with Trip until Malcolm makes a grand reappearance.

“Our captors are back,” the Commander says flatly.

Malcolm purses his lips into a thin line. “So I see.”

Ziv taps on her circular device to make the door appear and Trip attempts to distract himself from the upcoming disaster by focusing intently on the mechanisms of the technology. What he can see, that is. There are no hinges despite how it swings open, nor is there any handle or other way to open it other than shoving. It seems to literally appear out of thin air. Cloaking technology, perhaps? Or maybe a very complicated projection system designed to make them  _ think  _ the door appears out of thin air. 

Ziv notices him staring and offers a small smile. “Commander-Engineer, I’m sure you are fascinated by our technology, yes?”

Trip doesn’t really want to admit he’s fascinated by anything about these people. Reluctantly, he nods.

“I am sure your Captain-Leader and the Head of Province Lady Grenan would be willing to coordinate an exchange of sorts,” Inga butts in from across the room. “Once you have been returned, of course.”

“I think once we’re  _ released, _ ” Malcolm says, “we’ll be happy to just leave, thank you.”

_ You tell ‘em,  _ says one side of Trip. The other side whines childishly,  _ but I want to look at their tech! _

“Your right arm, please,” Inga asks Malcolm, while Ziv asks for Trip’s left. A device neither have them have seen before is run over their medical bracelets, looking for god-knows-what. It gives a chirp once it finds whatever it was.

“Thank you,” Ziv says. Inga says nothing at all. “Experiment two will now be administered.” She bends down to pick up the glass case, opening the lid to reveal two hyposprays nestled on a thin cushion as if they were crown jewels. “This contains a carefully prepared sample of  _ Hethi,  _ a substance native to the trees of the Rea province. In its raw state, Hethi is lethal to everyone on Ihoblaq, but we found a way some centuries ago to incorporate it into our-”

“I don’t need the history lesson,” Trip interrupts. “Jus’ inject me with the damn thing and get it over with.”

Ziv’s eyes widen in surprise, maybe out of the Commander’s apparent “willingness”, and she pulls out one of the hyposprays.

Dizziness hits suddenly, catching him off guard. Trip stumbles backwards, his foot hitting the edge of his mattress and he just barely manages to steady himself against the wall before he cracks his skull open on it. He lets himself slide into a seated position as the word tilts and wobbles.

“It is quite strong,” Ziv’s voice cuts through the fog in his brain. “You may experience disorientation and slight headaches. We regret how uncomfortable this will make you, but please understand that this is in the pursuit of knowledge.”

_ You don’t regret a thing,  _ Trip thinks.  _ Pursuit of knowledge my ass. This is torture, plain and simple. _

His vision begins to clear just as the aliens are leaving. Once again, he pays special attention to the door – as much as he can given his current condition, that is – to try and spot any visible mechanisms, and once again he is let down. He sighs.

Malcolm makes his way towards Trip on soft feet, kneeling down beside him with a concerned look in his eye. “Commander? Are you alright?”

Trip rubs a hand against his forehead and nods. “’m fine. Jus’ got really dizzy all of a sudden.” He looks back up at Malcolm. “What about you? Itchiness back? Breathin’ issues?”

Malcolm seems to hesitate for a moment, then he shakes his head. “No. In fact, I feel fine. I didn’t experience any dizziness or nausea when they injected me.” 

“Nothin’?”

“Nothing,” Malcolm confirms. “Seems whatever’s in this Hethi, you’re more allergic to it than me.”

Trip rests his head against the wall and groans. “Well, ain’t that fantastic.”

“Indeed.”

The conversation dies into silence. At some point Malcolm must get tired of kneeling in front of Trip, for the shuffle of fabric indicates he’s sat down beside him now. 

“What do you think the captain’s doing right now?” Malcolm asks after a few moments, glancing over at Trip.

“Knowin’ Jon? I'm sure he's doin' everything he can to get us outta here,” Trip sighs. "But I'll bet T'Pol's the only thing keepin' him from cussin' someone out over this," he adds with a chuckle, though he’s not entirely certain that the words came out in the right order.

Malcolm scoffs. “I’m sure you’re right about that.”

Trip tries to formulate a response, but his previous statement is apparently all that the fogginess in his brain will allow him for now. He briefly wonders why he suddenly feels so much worse until he feels his breakfast starting to make a reappearance, scrambling to his feet to run into the lavatory.

Or, he at least  _ tries _ to before another wave of dizziness nearly sends him sprawling on his ass. 

Malcolm acts quickly, getting to his feet to catch the engineer before he hits the floor. "Trip, are you alright?" He asks as he holds the man up, his tone laced with concern. "What were you trying to do?"

"Bathroom," is all Trip can manage to say, fearing that if he talks any more than that, then there may be more than just words coming out of his mouth. In any other context, if he'd managed to fall and be caught by Malcolm, he'd be swooning, trying his damned hardest to prolong the experience, but right now, his main concern was trying to avoid spewing all over their cell.

"Ah." Malcolm nods understandingly, keeping a strong grip on the commander as he guides him across their cell to the lavatory. He opens the door before leading him to the toilet, gently setting him down in front of it. He winces to himself as Trip starts gagging, turning to leave. "I assume you'll want privacy-"

"No, please-" Trip heaves, but nothing comes out. "Stay. Unless it'd gross you out," he manages to croak out.

"Not at all." Malcolm shakes his head, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on Trip's shoulder. "I don't mind."

Malcolm stares intently at the wall in an attempt to give the engineer some semblance of privacy while he empties his guts into the toilet, absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder much like the other man had done to him the night before. When all he hears is Trip's heavy breathing, he speaks up, his voice soft with concern- "Are you alright?"

"I'm far from 'alright,' but I  _ am _ feelin' a little better now that I've got that outta the way," Trip mutters, the toilet bowl adding a slight echo to his words.

"Well, I hope that's the last of it," Malcolm sighs.

Trip visibly shudders from the thought of having to make another hurried detour to the lavatory, clearing his throat before speaking. "Yeah. I can't imagine hauling me in here to spill my guts would be very fun."

"Well… it isn't, but I meant more for your sake," Malcolm murmurs, and the engineer glances up to see a concerned frown on his face. "I don't mind helping you, especially after you helped me-" he gestures towards his bandaged arm. "But I can't imagine you're having the greatest time with this, either."

Trip scoffs as he tries to lift himself off of the floor, his legs wobbling beneath him as he tries to use the toilet for balance. "Talk about an understatement," he mutters.

"Let me help you," Malcolm offers, gripping Trip's shoulders to hold him up. For a second, the engineer considers protesting, but he soon realizes how hypocritical it would be of him to refuse help now when he all but made Malcolm accept his help not much longer than an hour ago and allows himself to be guided over to the sink. "Freshen up a little. I'll be here in case you start to fall again."

Trip nods, glancing over at Malcolm with a small, grateful smile. "Thanks fer all the help."

"It's no trouble at all, really," Malcolm grins reassuringly. 

Once Trip is done at the sink, Malcolm helps him make his way out of the lavatory, leading him over to sit on his cot. "You should lay down, get some rest," the armoury officer states simply. 

Trip glances up at Malcolm, his eyebrow raised inquisitively. "What about you?" He questions.

"What  _ about _ me?" Malcolm crosses his arms over his chest. "I told you, Trip, I feel fine. It's almost like they never injected me with anything. You're the one who's having a hard time with this, and you need rest to get over it."

"But 'm not even tired," Trip counters, and he can't help but feel like he sounds like a little kid.

"Do you have to be so stubborn?" Malcolm mutters. "I’ve been through this kind of thing, and I can tell you from personal experience that getting some sleep will help. Let me help you"

Trip snorts. "You ever hear that sayin' about the pot and the kettle?"

Malcolm bites his lip, choosing not to acknowledge the engineer’s comment despite how much truth there was to it. "You need  _ rest _ , Trip,” he reiterates, and the commander can tell by his firm tone that he won’t be backing down from this.

"Y'know, I'm startin' ta think that my stubbornness is rubbin' off on ya," Trip comments as he lays down on the cot.

Malcolm chuckles softly, shaking his head. "I've always been rather stubborn. You just bring out the worst of it."

"Oh, really?" Trip smirks. "I never woulda guessed."

Malcolm simply rolls his eyes, earning a chuckle from Trip as he helps him cover up.

"You gonna read me a bedtime story like my ma used to?" the engineer quips, the smirk never leaving his face.

Malcolm snorts. "I suppose you'll want a kiss goodnight, too?"

Trip knows damn well that the other man means it as a joke, but that's not enough to stop the heat from rising to his cheeks. "If yer willin'," he laughs awkwardly. 

Malcolm rolls his eyes yet again. "Get some rest," he mutters, making his way back to his own cot.

"Y'know, if ya keep rollin' yer eyes like that, they'll fall right outta yer head."

"Then quit giving me reasons to roll my eyes and just go to sleep," Malcolm laughs lightly.

"Alright, alright," Trip holds his hands up in mock surrender. "Point taken."

He rolls onto his side, his back now facing Malcolm, before closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep.

* * *

“Well, this is certainly an unexpected development. Tell me,  _ yen’tala  _ Ziv, what do you observe?”

“It appears that the Lieutenant-Warrior is not being affected by the Hethi in any way previously documented or noticeable. His vital signs remain relatively stable. Instead, it is Commander-Engineer Tucker’s condition which has begun to deteriorate.”

“Precisely. We were told that the Commander does not suffer from the human ailment alair-gees, yet he is showing signs of respiratory distress and nausea.”

“Maybe we were misinformed?”

“A possibility. However, I am disinclined to believe it. They seem just as surprised at this revelation as we are.”

“So, what are we to do? Shall we bring a halt to the experiments?”

“Have either of them displayed life-threatening symptoms?”

“No.”

“Then no, the experiments will continue under the orders of Our Lady Grenan. I will, however, contact the Earth Ship _ Enterprise _ and ask to speak with their doctor. He may also find this revelation of note.”

* * *

“Captain, we have an incoming transmission from the planet.”

Archer bounds up to the main part of the bridge like Porthos when he smells cheese, the argument with Lieutenant Hess now forgotten. “Put it through, Hoshi.” After nearly a day of radio silence, even the smallest of communication is met with eager welcomeness.

The viewscreen flickers to life, displaying the image of a rather dreary white-haired Ihoblaqi individual with only one eye, much like the province leader Grenan. Absently, Archer wonders if it’s a genetic trait of some sort.

“Captain-Leader Archer, of  _ Enterprise _ ,” greets the Ihoblaqi. Even through the universal translator, their voice is gravelly and rough, and their tone just as bored as their facial expression.

Archer forces a smile. “Just Captain Archer is fine.”

The Ihoblaqi grunts in response. “My identity is Eirwa Inga; I am a Doctor and Researcher from the Kaiakari Province Science and Medical Research Facility.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Archer greets, though his pleasantries sound more apprehensive. “I’ll assume, given the current situation and your career, that you are calling to discuss my missing men.”

“That is correct.”

Archer nods. “Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed were kidnapped after a party two days ago. I was told by one of your ministers that they are currently being experimented on in some fashion, yes?”

“That is also correct.”

Anger surges through the Captain and he forces himself to take a deep breath to calm down. Diplomacy first, he thinks, then we can start the firefight. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me we can have them back.”

Inga has the audacity to look confused. “Why would we return them before the experiments have concluded?”

“Of course,” Archer mutters with a sigh.

“I am calling,” Inga continues, “in the hopes of being able to speak with your physician, the Denobulan by the name of Phlox. We have discovered something he may find enlightening.”

A chill runs up Archer’s spine and a million different scenarios begin to play rapid-fire in his mind, each of them worse than the last.

“I also hope to exchange information to better understand my patients, ensure their complete safety.”

“Since when do you care about their safety?” Travis suddenly snaps from the helm. The Captain flashes him a warning look, though he can’t say he wasn’t about to ask the very same thing.

The expression on Inga’s face morphs from confusion to something that resembles almost horror. “I am surprised to discover you believe us cruel,” they say coldly. “Never once has it been our intention to inflict harm upon anyone if it does not advance scientific findings. Indeed, I care about the Commander and Lieutenant’s safety. There are strict guidelines surrounding our way of experimentation. Should I break a single one even minorly I would be immediately stripped of my title, relieved of my duties, and incarcerated. Now-” Inga shuffles in their seat and laces their fingers together “-I wish to speak to your doctor. May this transmission be redirected to your medical facility?”

Archer fumbles on his words for a good few seconds, his brain still processing Inga’s speech. “I would prefer to meet with you in person,” he sputters finally.

Inga’s one eye twitches. “That would be preferable for me, too, were it not for the fact that I cannot leave the ground facility. I am leading this experiment. Abandoning it at any point is irresponsible of a professional.”

“We can come to you,” Archer suggests.

“Absolutely not.” Inga looks indignant at the very notion. “This is a highly secure facility, authorized access only. We do not allow anyone, especially aliens, to just wander in.”

“Then I guess we’re at an impasse,” Archer says between gritted teeth. “If you can’t talk to our doctor  _ in person _ , you can’t get the information you want.”

“Neither will you.”

“We don’t want your information in the first place! We just want our people back.”

Inga draws back at the Captain’s raised tone, but their expression doesn’t change. “Need I remind you, Captain-Leader, that you do not speak for your doctor. You may not want the information I hold, but I’m sure he will find it vital.”

Archer flushes an angry red and only just barely manages to hold back from yelling a series of insults towards the indifferent Ihoblaqi on the screen. “Fine,” he spits. “But that doesn’t change the fact that neither of us can move from our current locations.”

“I’ll send one of my assistants via shuttlecraft.” Inga’s posture has relaxed now, tension Archer didn’t even realize was there in the first place slowly vanishing. “Is that acceptable?”

“It is.”

“Good,” Inga states with a nod. “He will be shipped out within the next two hours. If he returns with any sign of physical trauma, I will not hesitate to report you to our authorities.”

“What kind of people do you take us for?” Archer demands. “We aren’t in the habit of beating people for information!” Unbidden, the image of an Osaarian suffocating in an airlock comes to mind. He wills it away.

Calmly, Inga replies, “we all make assumptions, Captain-Leader Archer. None of us are innocent. Good day.”

The viewscreen flickers to black and the eyes of all the bridge crew turn towards the Captain. Archer flops into his seat with a sigh, holding his head in his hands. After a few moments he reaches out and activates the comm on the armrest. “Archer to Phlox.”

“ _ Phlox here. _ ”

“Within the next two hours you’ll be getting a guest.”

“ _ A guest, Captain?” _

“An Ihoblaqi. Assistant of some doctor who’s currently working on Trip and Malcolm.” He hesitates. “Try and get as much information as you can out of him. Archer out.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this chapter is LATE AF. That's about 90% on me, not Scottie, lmao.

Moving quickly, Commander T’Pol on his heels, Archer makes his way down the hall and slams the door operations once he reaches sickbay. His rather aggressive entrance startles both aliens within the room and the medical crewman assisting them.

“Report,” the Captain demands, glaring at the smiling Ihoblaqi to the left.

He’s obviously come on too strong, for Phlox plants himself between them and says firmly, “I have learned some fascinating information, Captain. In addition, I believe I’ve been of at least some assistance to Doctor Carna here.”

“That is an understatement,” the blue-haired Ihoblaqi says. “Doctor Inga will find the information your Doctor has given most helpful.”

Archer glances between them, forcing his expression and tone to soften. He must not let personal animosity get in the way of the situation here, lest it turn for the worst. “What kind of information?”

Giving a small wordless exclamation, Phlox bustles over to his desk and picks up one of the discarded PADDS, swiping through it a few times. “Rest assured, Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed are in good health. More or less.” He offers a strained smile. “Not one of the reports I’ve been given on their experiment or past experiments have led me to believe these people have ill will towards us. They are simply curious.”

“There are other ways to go about that,” Archer growls, “instead of kidnapping our men and using them.”

Doctor Carna shuffles uncomfortably.

“If I may interject, Captain,” T’Pol speaks up for the first time since they’ve arrived, “you are putting human standards on non-human people. They have used this approach to new discoveries for decades with tight rules and safe procedures without any major incident. You may disagree with their way of life, but it is not up to you to decide on the ethicality.”

Archer raises a hand to scratch at his head, a common gesture of embarrassment. “I apologize,” he says after a beat of silence. “Please continue, Doctor.”

“Gladly.” Phlox clears his throat. “It seems that there are six tests total to be conducted on the Commander and Lieutenant; one has already been completed, and the other is in progress.”

“And the tests are for allergic reactions, right?”

“Correct. Lieutenant Reed seems to be their focal subject. He suffers from multiple allergies,” Phlox explains, seeing the Captain’s questioning look, “most of them minor. The Ihoblaqi are studying his reactions, as far as I can tell.” He turns to Carna, who nods in confirmation. “There hasn’t been anything out of the ordinary, nor has there been anything that could harm him long term, but I do have my concerns, which I shared with Doctor Carna.”

“If they’re only interested in Reed,” asks Archer, “why did they take Trip too?”

“We needed a control subject, of course,” Carna answers instantly. “Normally there would be no need for one, but as we don’t know the normal reactions of human physiology…” he trails off, shrugging.

“There has been an unexpected development, however,” Phlox jumps in. “It seems Commander Tucker has shown some common signs of an allergy attack in their most recent test. As far as I’m aware, he is not allergic to anything. Nothing he is normally exposed to, that is.”

Archer feels worry well up in his chest. He knows Phlox can’t tell him the details – doctor-patient confidentiality – but that doesn’t stop him from longing to know exactly what is happening to his friend. “So, one of their… alien substances did this?”

“Precisely.”

“It confused us at first,” says Carna. “We were told the Commander-Engineer had no such condition, but now we know that it is not at all definite.” The smile on his face fades slightly, his eyes drooping. “This also means that we have no comparison. A shame. The results would have been fascinating.”

It takes a few moments for Archer to grasp the meaning behind Carna’s wistful words. “Unfortunately, you’re all out of human volunteers,” he snaps. “To be perfectly honest, I have no desire to leave Tucker or Reed in your care at all.”

T’Pol steps forward. “Captain-”

“But I am willing to offer a compromise.”

All three aliens perk up. “What kind of compromise?” Doctor Carna asks.

“I want _our_ doctor to be privy to the results of every test. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

Carna closes his eyes briefly, rocks on his heels and hums, before saying, “our tests are confidential.”

“Not when it’s my men, they’re not.” Forget diplomacy, Archer thinks. He’s become far too impatient and fed up with these aliens. “All results _will_ be copied and given to Doctor Phlox or I won’t hesitate to storm that building and get Tucker and Reed out myself.”

Sickbay falls into silence. The medical crewman from earlier, who had been off to the side until now, skitters behind a cabinet and busies themselves reorganizing.

“That seems reasonable to me,” Doctor Carna whispers. “I… will inform Doctor Inga. Now, I believe my business here is finished. May I return to my shuttle now?”

Archer gestures sharply at a nearby Ensign to escort the alien down to the shuttlebay. Carna leaves without a backward glance, head down and shoulders hunched.

“That was unwise of you, Captain,” T’Pol speaks up once the doors have slid shut. “You still have no idea what the Ihoblaqi military is capable of, their arsenal. Barring that, my earlier scans of the Kaiakari Province Science and Medical building show it consists of three viable entry points, all of which are heavily guarded at all hours. The facility also contains close to one hundred and fifty biosigns. A rescue attempt would almost certainly result in failure.”

Deep down, he knows T’Pol is right, but he isn’t ready to face that right now. Ignoring her, he turns to Phlox and says, “let me know when you find anything remotely concerning. I’ll be on the bridge,” and storms out of sickbay, missing the look exchanged between Commander and Doctor. 

* * *

Trip isn’t sure how long he’s been sleeping before he’s slowly pulled back to the brink of consciousness by the sound of indistinct shouting. The voices sound distant, like he’s underwater and they’re on the surface, and he struggles to make out who they belong to. 

In a fleeting moment of clarity, a familiar voice cuts through the commotion- “I _said_ , don’t touch me!”

“Malcolm!” Trip tries to shout, but for some reason, trying to talk only makes him feel like he has cotton in his mouth. It takes far more effort than it should for him to move, and he can’t help but feel like he’s swimming through a pool full of molasses as he tries to sit up in his cot. He turns his head in the general direction of the voices to see a crowd of those damn aliens- he can’t even be bothered to remember what their species is called because whatever the hell they’re doing right now, they’re clearly hurting Malcolm, and Trip is not about to let that happen.

“Trip!” he hears Malcolm call out, and for some reason, his voice sounds even more distant than the indistinct chatter of the aliens surrounding him.

He lifts himself up off of the cot, but everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion. The aliens, however, all move rapidly around Malcolm- like someone pressed fast-forward on a movie. Trip groans as he’s hit with a wave of dizziness not unlike the one he felt when they first injected him with the last experiment, and it feels like it takes him a lifetime to hit the floor. He tries to get back on his feet, only to stumble forward a few steps until his face collides with an invisible barrier, and it’s made blatantly apparent to him that the aliens have decided to separate him and Malcolm again.

“Trip!” Malcolm shouts again, and this time, it sounds only slightly clearer.

“What’re you bastards doin’ ta him?” he screams, and even his own voice sounds far away as he angrily pounds a fist against the glass. “Leave him alone!”

He feels the unmistakable sensation of a hand on his shoulder, but when he glances at it, he sees nothing there. The next time he hears the other man’s voice, it’s so loud that it feels like he’s shouting from inside his head.

“ _Trip, wake up!_ ”

Trip’s fairly certain that he feels his fist collide with something as he flings himself into a sitting position- for real, this time. The loud grunt he hears from someone else in the room only serves to corroborate his suspicions.

“What on Earth was _that_ for?” a very pissed-off sounding Malcolm exclaims.

“Where’d them colourful sonso’bitches go?” Trip murmurs frantically, reaching a hand up to rub his head as he glances around their cell in confusion.

“Colourf- oh,” an amused chuckle slips past Malcolm’s lips as he realizes what the engineer is trying to say. “You mean our captors?”

“Yeah, them,” Trip sighs. “They were swarmin’ around ya like vultures.”

Malcolm’s expression briefly shifts to confusion before softening after a moment. “I wasn’t swarmed by anyone. That must’ve been your dream.” He gestures vaguely towards the cart left in the middle of their cell, though Trip isn’t looking at him to see it. “They did come in not too long ago with breakfast, though. The lady with the pink hair said they want to start the third experiment soon after we eat.”

“Not givin’ us much time ta rest at all, are they?” Trip mutters, letting out a huff of annoyance.

“Seems they value their efficiency above all else.”

“Yeah, includin’ safety.”

Malcolm hums in agreement, and a brief silence falls over them before he speaks again. “Are you feeling any better?” he asks in a concerned tone, inching himself slightly closer to Trip’s cot. 

Trip takes a moment to think and finds himself feeling relatively normal, but when he turns to tell that to the other man, any concern for himself melts away at the sight of the bruise forming on his face. “Is that from me?” he asks sheepishly, an apologetic expression on his face as he points at Malcolm’s eye.

Malcolm nods, laughing lightly to himself. “I suppose that’s what I get for frightening someone while they’re having a nightmare."

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Trip shakes his head to himself. “Don’t know what got inta me.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like you did it on purpose,” Malcolm shrugs. “Unlike our hosts when we first got here,” he added in a low voice.

Trip cringes at the memory of Malcolm’s resistance to the first experiment, pushing the image out of his mind almost as quickly as it came. “Still, you’ve got more than enough problems without yer only company beatin’ ya up.”

He instinctively reaches out to tilt the other man’s head slightly so he can get a better look at the bruise, placing his fingers just below his chin. “So yer alright, then?” he questions as he examines the bruise. He lightly brushes the fingers of his other hand against the skin, frowning slightly as the other man's face screws into a wince. “That hurt?”

“A little, yeah,” Malcolm murmurs, and Trip swears he can see a slight rosy tint coming to his cheeks. “But it’ll be fine.”

“Well, next time we get any visitors, I’ll ask ‘em fer some ice for ya,” Trip replies simply. He knows he should probably remove his hands from the other man's face, but at the same time, part of him wants to prolong the contact for as long as possible. He’s almost convinced that he feels the armoury officer leaning slightly into his touch, but before he can determine whether it was his imagination or reality, Malcolm clears his throat, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Perhaps a little food will help you feel better,” the lieutenant suggests, a small grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he gets to his feet. 

“Yeah,” Trip nods. “But first, I gotta use the bathroom.”

“I can help you, if you’re still dizzy,” Malcolm offers.

Trip nods in appreciation, pushing himself off of the cot with a soft sigh as Malcolm takes hold of his arm to keep him steady. He’s still a little wobbly on his feet, and there’s a dull ache in his joints similar to when he has a cold, but it’s a huge improvement from the night before, and the armoury officer doesn’t let go of his arm until they’re both certain that he won’t topple over.

After making sure Trip's use of the bathroom doesn't end with a detour to the floor, Malcolm helps Trip back to his cot before wheeling the cart of food over, and the two men eat side by side on Trip's cot. The food is more familiar than it’s been so far- instead of the rock sandwiches, they have been provided with two plates of barely warm toast, and the distinct smell of cinnamon oatmeal catches Trip’s senses. He starts to worry that he might not be better after all as his stomach tightens.

“How long do you reckon we’ve been in here?” Malcolm pipes up just as Trip is taking a bite of some alien fruit. It tastes like an apple but it’s as juicy as a peach.

“Two days?” Trip suggests a few seconds later. “Or wait, we spent some time unconscious, didn’t we?”

Malcolm nods.

“So, somewhere close ta three days, I’d wager.”

“Three days,” Malcolm echoes in a dangerously soft voice, “and I haven’t even tried to get us out.”

 _Oh,_ thinks Trip. _So, we’re doing this now?_ “Hang on a minute, Malcolm. You’ve been battlin’ allergy attacks this whole time, scratchin’ yerself ‘til yer bleedin’. I think it’s safe to say you’ve been a little too preoccupied to think about gettin’ out of here.”

“I wasn’t all that _preoccupied_ these last few hours, was I?” Malcolm shoots back.

“You were busy lookin’ after my sorry ass!” Trip exclaims. To further punctuate his point, he positions himself so that he’s looking Malcolm directly in the eye. “’sides, if there’s anyone who had the time ta think about ways ta escape, it’s me. I was unaffected for the first experiment. Hell, I’m the engineer here. I could’ve spent that time lookin’ at those damned disappearin’ doors.”

“And why didn’t you?” Malcolm’s voice has taken on a cold, accusing tone, which only riles Trip up further.

“Because yer my friend!” Trip practically shouts. “I care more about the welfare of my friend before anythin’ else. But maybe you don’t think the same fer me.”

The words have left his mouth before he can stop them. He watches, frozen, as Malcolm’s expression morphs first into shock, then anger, then a flicker of hurt crosses his features before it neutrals out entirely. A defensive strategy.

“I apologize,” Malcolm says. “I…” He fumbles for words. “I’m… sorry if you inferred that I don’t care about you, Trip.”

Trip runs a hand through his hair, sighing while his stupid brain tries to take the words and force another meaning onto them. _Not like that. He doesn’t mean it like that_. “Nah, I’m sorry. That was outta line. Yer jus’ lookin’ at things from a tactical standpoint. But, damn, Malcolm, maybe you can stop actin’ as if all this rests on yer shoulders?”

“In case you haven’t-” Malcolm snaps, stops himself, then starts again more calmly. “I am the security officer in this situation, Trip. In a way, it does rest on my shoulders, doesn’t it?”

“Did you get a promotion I don’t know about? I’m the higher-ranking officer, Mal.”

Malcolm exhales slowly, looking as if he’s about to argue further, but Trip jumps in before he can say a word.

“If you really need ta find someone at fault here, it’s those damn aliens. They brought us here without us knowin’. They’re keepin’ us like creatures in a zoo to experiment on for their own gain. They’re the ones injectin’ us with god-knows-what and makin’ our immune systems go haywire. We’re only here arguin’ about this _because_ of them. So quit blamin’ yerself, a’right?”

By the time his rant is over Trip is breathing hard, a little lightheaded from the excessive use of oxygen in his slightly weakened state. His panting is the only sound between them for a few seconds before Malcolm quietly says, “alright.”

Trip sighs, grateful he won’t have to launch into further argument.

“You’re right, Trip. I-”

The Lieutenant is interrupted by the screech of metal scraping, a sign that the hallway door has opened. Moments later, Inga and their white-haired assistant from the first day come into view, carrying two small containers between them.

“Let me guess,” Malcolm says wryly before either alien can get a word in. “Experiment three?”

Inga’s eye perks up slightly. “You are catching on.”

Trip and Malcolm exchange a glance as the two Ihoblaqi let themselves into the cell. Neither man sees any point in making a fuss as the hyposprays are injected into their bloodstream. The room is quiet; uncomfortably so. Trip almost misses Ziv’s eager explanation on what the injections contain. Even Inga themself seems rather confused at the silence.

It isn’t until the Ihoblaqi are out the cell door that Malcolm decides to speak up.

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to let the commander go?” he questions, and Trip can hear how forced the polite tone to his voice is. “You can use the results from the first test as your control subject. There’s no need to put him through any more of your tests.”

“Oh, hell naw-” Trip protests, and Malcolm mentally curses himself for actually thinking that the engineer would just stay quiet while he tried to bargain for his freedom. All it takes to silence the other man is another one of his stern glares, but Malcolm can’t help but worry if one day, that won’t be enough to shut him up.

“On the contrary, there is significant reasoning to keep him here,” Inga counters. “Yesterday’s experiment yielded fascinating results. We’re intrigued by the fact that someone who previously hadn’t been affected by these allair-gees could have a reaction to one of our experiments.”

“I’m not allergic to anythin’ we’ve got on _our_ planet, but yer injectin’ us with stuff that's completely alien to us,” Trip snaps. "It makes _sense_ that I'd eventually react ta somethin' you guys gave me."

Inga’s eye flicks between the two of them. "The Commander-Engineer will remain here," they state flatly, ignoring Trip’s interjection. “Further argument from either of you will result in permanent separation.”

That’s the third time they’ve been threatened with separation since they’ve been there, and Malcolm isn’t exactly thrilled by the notion of finding out if they have a “three strikes” rule. “Alright, then,” he forces out through gritted teeth, before Trip can say anything to worsen the situation.

Inga’s gaze softens slightly. “If it eases your minds,” they add, “your Captain has made it… very clear that he wants to be aware of any revelations we may achieve. Since you clearly still don’t believe we don’t have malicious intent, perhaps this will convince you.” They don’t seem to be particularly pleased at the notion of having someone looking over their shoulder - then again, who does?

Without a timely response, Inga gives a curt nod and motions for their assistant to follow and the two head down the hallway, the crash of a door closing signaling their departure. 

It takes a few moments for the words to truly sink into Trip’s brain. If they’re to believe the Ihoblaqi doctor, Captain Archer is apparently aware of their predicament, which is a somewhat of a relief save for the nagging question at the back of his mind.

_If the Captain knows, why hasn’t he tried to get us out of here?_

A harsh, wheezing cough drags him out of his thoughts. Trip whirls on his heel to find Malcolm a few steps away from him, hunched forward, one arm wrapped around his chest and the other near his throat. 

“Mal?” Trip inquires in concern.

The only response he receives is another cough. 

Hurriedly, Trip drapes an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders and guides him over to the cot.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayo! Sorry for the week late update. I had a shitton of schoolwork to get done (and harley is a lazy ass jk i lov u) so we pushed back the publishing date. 
> 
> It's a bit shorter than the last ones but I think it turned out well!
> 
> \- Scottie

Trip paces around the cell, scrutinizing every inch of the walls, while he pretends not to hear his friend’s rough breathing.

It takes every fiber of strength within him not to go running to the back cot and gather the man in his arms, heal him with a flick of the wrist the way he can stop a piece of equipment from malfunctioning.

But Malcolm isn’t a machine.

And not only would Malcolm probably snap at him for treating him like a child – Trip has neither the knowledge nor the resources to do a single thing about their predicament.

This angers him, and before he can stop himself, his fist is on a collision course with the wall.

The clang is followed by a split second of silence before Malcolm asks, in a strained voice, “Trip?”

“Ow,” says Trip. He stares at his hand, at where the knuckles have already begun to turn red. It doesn’t hurt as much as he thought.

There’s a faint shuffling noise from behind him – Malcolm painstakingly maneuvering himself into a sitting position, no doubt – and the British accented voice speaks once more. “Trip, what on Earth?”

Trip shakes his hand out and, plastering a small smile on his lips, turns around. “Sorry. Lost control for a sec, I think.”

Malcolm looks at him, brow furrowed in concern. “Lost control?” he echoes.

“Yeah.” Sensing Malcolm about to say something else he quickly jumps in again. “You feelin’ any better?”

It’s a stupid question, really. Malcolm’s skin is still pale and clammy, bright red rashes in stark contrast, marring his lean face. His resolve seems to have failed once or twice, too, for there’s fresh scabs on his arms and neck. He’s uncharacteristically hunched forward in an attempt to combat the nausea.

“All things considered,” Malcolm responds slowly, “I feel fine.”

 _Fine._ In Malcolm-ese that pretty much means “feeling bloody awful but am not going to tell you.”

As if reading his mind, Malcolm tacks on, “I mean, while this is certainly more… intense than the other few times, ultimately I’ll live.”

“An’ that’s just about the only guarantee we have,” Trip mutters.

“Sorry?”

“That you’ll live.” Running a hand through his hair, Trip takes a couple steps closer to the other man. “An’ even that I’m disinclined ta believe. We have no reason ta trust ‘em. They might just let ya die if things get too bad.”

Malcolm blinks but says nothing, so Trip continues.

“Maybe you’ll live. Who’s ta say you’ll live exactly how you were before? What if they, I dunno, do somethin’ that affects ya permanently? I care about ya, Malcolm. I don’t wanna see you lose yer position on _Enterprise_ all ‘cause these bastards needed some lab rats to experiment on.”

“Trip,” Malcolm says softly, “I’m suffering from allergy attacks. I’ve not been shot or impaled. I haven’t been beaten to a pulp. Whatever these aliens do to me, it certainly won’t leave lasting effects.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’ve lived with allergies my entire life and you’re questioning my authority on the subject?”

Trip sighs, screws his eyes shut. He’s just getting himself all wound up in worry. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I just… don’t wanna see you hurt.”

“I understand, Trip. But you don’t need to be fretting on my account. I’ll be alright.”

Trip opens his eyes and finds himself staring deeply into Malcolm’s soft grey ones. In the light they seem to be shimmering, almost as if he’s on the verge of tears.

“Is the pain really that bad?” Trip hears himself say.

Malcolm’s lips curl into a frown. “Ehm, no. I’m not feeling any pain at all, in fact. Mostly just a dull ache. Why do you ask?”

Suddenly feeling rather embarrassed, Trip brings his gaze down to the floor. “Ah, I just thought.” He swallows. “You looked like you were crying.”

Silence. Then a low, gravelly chuckle escapes Malcolm’s throat. “Oh, Trip. I’m not crying from pain or anything. My eyes tend to water, depending on my reaction.”

“I see.” Trip feels his face turn red and not for reasons such as before. “I’m, ah, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Malcolm manages one more chuckle before his throat seizes up and he doubles over, coughing.

Hurriedly, Trip runs over and kneels down in front of his friend. Five hours have passed, and Malcolm sounds no better. In the last experiments Malcolm always showed signs of improvement around this mark. “Breathe, Mal,” Trip coaxes. “Deep breaths. C’mon.”

“Easy-” cough “for y-” cough “f-for you. Ca-” cough “-n’t breathe, wh-when there’s no-” cough “air.”

While Malcolm struggles to draw in oxygen, Trip glares at the security camera he discovered earlier. Maybe one of the colourful bastards will see what’s happening and come to help.

Unlikely, he knows, but it doesn’t stop him from hoping.

But the metal door down the hall stays closed, and Malcolm recovers all on his own. Sometimes, Trip hates being right.

* * *

He isn’t sure what wakes him up at first. With a muffled groan, Trip shifts and snuggles closer into the heat source wrapped around him. His quarters are at a somewhat lower temperature than he’s used to and despite his coziness, he shivers. Something must be wrong with the environment controls again.

Bleary eyed, he reaches one arm up to comm engineering, only for his arm to flail midair.

Then the heat source in his arms mumbles something inaudible.

Suddenly Trip is _wide_ awake, lurching into a sitting position so quick his vision spins and the blanket around his knees slips off. Malcolm gives a moan of disappointment from back down on the cot, his bandaged hand groping weakly for the vanished warmth. With his dark hair mused and his face lax, it could almost be adorable - if he didn’t look ten times worse than before.

And how the hell did they end up in an embrace anyway? 

“Mm,” Malcolm hums, cracking his eyes open as much as he can. “Hi, Trip.”

“Hi,” Trip stutters.

It’s a miracle how Malcolm can snap to attention even when he’s sitting down and nearly unable to move. “How long has it been?” he asks calmly.

“I dunno.” A small smile plays on Trip’s lips. “I fell asleep too. Sorry.”

“You are unbelievable,” Malcolm sighs, the weakness in his tone deflating even the smallest attempt at humour. Trip watches as he gingerly uncurls his legs, lips pursed and face growing even paler. “Bloody cramps,” the Armoury officer mutters.

Trip forces his gaze away, knowing the longer he stares the more obvious he’ll be - or the more likely Malcolm will kick his butt, allergies or not. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Eh, as well as can be, I suppose.” Malcolm flashes him a grin before glancing in the direction of the washroom. “Would you mind helping me up? My legs are still rather stiff.”

“Sure thing.”

It’s only when they reach the washroom and Malcolm disappears through the invisible door that the truth hits Trip.

Malcolm asked for help.

_Shit._

He’s so lost in worry he doesn’t notice the aliens standing at the other side of the glass wall until he turns around.

“Sweet Jesus!” Trip cries, stumbling backwards and slamming into the back wall. His heart beats furiously in his chest from the adrenaline shock. “Fu- when did you come in?” _And why did I not hear that stupid screeching door?_

Inga’s eye raises. “A few seconds ago.”

“We apologize for startling you,” Ziv adds. Her eyes move to focus somewhere behind his shoulder. Malcolm must have come out of the washroom.

Ziv brings out one of her egg-shaped PADDs, unlocking the invisible door with a quick tap, and the two aliens step inside. Inga’s hands hold a small opaque case. Must be the next experiment, Trip thinks bitterly.

Then he blinks.

“Whoa, wait a minute.” As the aliens take a step towards them, Trip backs up, sending an apologetic glance to Malcolm as he bumps straight into the other man. “What d’you think yer doin’?”

Confusion – and perhaps annoyance – crosses Inga’s face. “This is experiment four, Commander.”

“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me,” Trip scoffs in disbelief, a sense of uneasiness settling low in his stomach. He does a quick calculation – approximately one experiment per day, a little under twenty-four hours between them. He’d spent the first few hours of experiment three keeping an eye on Malcolm, making sure he was kept conscious, before an unusual fatigue hit him and the two decided they would sleep for a while. Surely, though, they hadn’t been out that long?

Ziv answers the unspoken question with a small smile. “The last substance we gave you is known to cause drowsiness in our own species. It seems our physiologies were similar in such a way to allow for the same effect.”

Practically a sedative, Trip thinks angrily. He has half a mind to berate them for their carelessness. If Malcolm had so much as turned his neck awkwardly in his sleep, there was the chance he wouldn’t have woken up again!

Malcolm’s hand on his arm stops him from saying as much out loud.

“How long has it been?” the Lieutenant asks, voice still scratchy. “In total, I mean.”

“It has been four days and six hours since you first arrived,” Inga answers with disinterest. They flick open the clasps on the case they’re carrying and bring out a hypospray. “Tilt your head to the right, if you please.”

Same old instructions, same old rambling explanation from the pink haired Ihoblaqi, same old everything. Once the hypospray has been administered Trip braces himself against the wall with one hand and waits a few minutes to see if anything knocks him on his ass. Aside from a slight headache, he feels alright.

Malcolm, however, instantly goes a shade paler and stumbles for his mattress. Trip catches him before he falls face first and gently helps him lower himself into a comfortable position lying down, subconsciously fretting about the lack of protest from the smaller man.

Trip straightens up and turns to the Ihoblaqi who are watching with curious eyes. “You did that ta him,” he spits, just because he can.

Inga pays the insult no heed. Turning to their assistant, they mutter something the translator doesn’t pick up, and Ziv nods.

“What’re you sayin’?” Trip demands.

“ _Yen’tala_ Ziv has expressed a keen interest in this experiment,” Inga explains, monotone as ever. “The facility has given me permission to allow her direct observation for ten hours.” Beside them, Ziv smiles shyly.

Though he has some idea of what they’re going on about, Trip internally hopes he’s just mishearing. “What d’you mean by _direct observation?_ ”

“I’ll be stationed in a cornered off section of the room,” says Ziv. “I assure you, aside from a few questions here and there, you won’t even notice.”

Trip’s hands ball into fists, fingernails digging against his palms. “As if cameras weren’t bad enough,” he huffs, “now you gotta watch us personally as well?”

The smile on Ziv’s face vanishes and Trip feels a swell of pride. “My internship requires such an experience. Besides, as Doctor Inga said, it won’t be for long.”

“I expect you to conduct yourself civilly,” Inga says. “Any act of aggression will be met with the appropriate consequences, and in case you need a reminder, Commander, Ziv may not match your height, but her strength is twice your own.” Trip is surprised to catch the first hint of emotion in the doctor’s voice since they came here.

Protectiveness.

It seems the care one has for those under their command is not limited to humans.

“The agreement is made,” says Inga, taking Trip’s silence as acknowledgement. “A steward will be by shortly to provide nourishment for you and the Lieutenant-Warrior. I suspect you are rather hungry after nearly fifteen hours spent in sleep.”

“Not really,” Trip mumbles truthfully.

Turning to their assistant, Inga offers the pink haired alien what seems to be words of encouragement, before exiting the cell. To Trip’s surprise, Ziv does not follow.

“Yer not gonna watch from outside?” he inquires. “Give us, I dunno, at least some semblance of privacy?”

Ziv smiles nervously. “That’s how it has always been done. It provides a closer, more intimate experience. Um, but that’s almost always with patients of our own race.” She rocks back and forth on her feet. “I’m curious to see how it plays out with humans.”

Trip gives her a long, hard look. Had it been any other circumstance he may have found the young Ihoblaqi cute – in that child-like, little sister sort of way. Even now, a part of his brain is attracted to her youthful cheeriness.

 _She’s still your captor,_ he reminds himself. _She’s an alien who’s experimenting on you._ Experimenting _on you! Get a damn grip!_

“I hope our sufferin’ – _his_ sufferin’ – is worth satisfyin’ yer curiosity.” He gestures sharply over at Malcolm, then goes to kneel beside him, not missing the look of hurt on Ziv’s face. It’s pushed out of his mind quickly, though, when he brings a hand to his friend’s forehead and finds it warm. “Shit,” he mutters.

Malcolm’s eyes crack open lazily. “They gone?” he rasps.

“One is.” Trip leans slightly to the left to allow his friend the view of Ziv. “Apparently she’s got some internship of hers to fulfill. She’s gonna be in here with us for a little while.”

“Internship. Bloody hell.” Malcolm chuckles. “My sister had an internship once. Called me every week to complain about the bloody thing.” He laughs again and struggles into a sitting position, one hand scratching absently at his neck. “Damn, I’m itching again.”

"Fer christ's sake, Mal," Trip scolds, gently taking Malcolm's hands in his own to stop him from itching. "Am I gonna hafta  _ order _ ya ta quit scratchin' at yerself so much?"

“Perhaps,” Malcolm teases, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Then again, I may be liable to disobey if you do."

Trip would shoot back with some snarky comment, but anything that comes to mind gets caught in his throat when he swears he feels Malcolm squeeze his hand ever-so slightly. He’s suddenly acutely aware of just how close together their faces are, butterflies fluttering around in his stomach as his heart hammers in his ears and his gaze is entangled with Malcolm's. He can feel the telltale warmth of a blush rising to his own cheeks, and for a moment, he thinks he sees a similar blush on the other man's as well. ' _Probably just the fever_ ,' he reminds himself, but that won't stop him from hoping. 

He's tempted, more than ever, to just lean forward and close the gap between them, but too many things were keeping him from doing so - namely the fact that they’re being watched, both through cameras and by Ziv's presence with them in the cell. Even disregarding that, Malcolm would absolutely kick his ass if he tried anything, even with his allergies giving him so much trouble. No sense in getting his own hopes up like that just to risk ruining the perfectly good friendship they have going. 

He's torn from his thoughts by the screech of the door before he can entertain the idea further. Judging by the sound of wheels rolling that accompanies the footsteps approaching their cell, Trip assumes that their breakfast has arrived, and he can't help but feel relieved to have something to focus his attention on other than Malcolm and his worsening condition.

' _God, why did I have to go and fall for him, of all people?_ ' he thinks to himself. He spares one more glance at his friend - was his face that red a second ago? - before heading towards the door where the alien steward has just delivered a cart of food, trying to ignore the tingling in his hand.


End file.
